Lazarus Taxon
by Witticaster Cole
Summary: Four federal agents arrive at an evacuated hospital in north California. Special Agent Stilinski stands before a chapel in the Arcadian countryside. Derek Hale wakes from a nightmare in an abandoned train depot. This is what happens next. Sequel to The Forgotten Predator; Derek/Stiles; AU
1. The Crossroads of the World

**Notes: **This AU is starting to get out of hand. I apologize in advance. Beta'd by the adverb-hating Dusty; heckled by resident shit-disturber Poicephalus.

_**Lazarus Taxon**_

**Chapter One: "The Crossroads of the World"**

"_Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."_

-Herman Melville, _Moby Dick_

**α**

At 8:43 PM, paramedics arrive at the site of an automotive collision in Aeolia, California. One survivor is rushed to Aeolia General Hospital and is admitted at 8:51 PM under the name "Jane Doe."

At 8:56 PM, Jane Doe flatlines on the operating table.

At 8:58 PM, Jane Doe is successfully resuscitated.

Her scream shatters every window in a one-mile radius.

**α**

Six hours later, a black SUV pulls up outside of Aeolia General. A man and a woman, both in suits, get out and lean against the side of the car, waiting.

Half an hour after that, a large, windowless van pulls in behind it. Another man and woman get out of the van.

"Chloe Grandpre," says the woman from the van. "This is my partner, Matt Daehler."

"I've heard of you," the woman from the SUV says. "The new guy. What is it you do, again?"

"I talk to machines," Daehler says.

"Do they talk back?"

"Cute. And you are?"

"Rebecca Harlowe," says the woman from the SUV.

"Caine Marsh," says her partner. "Any idea why they called in two field teams?"

"They evacuated the whole hospital and put an entire wing on lockdown," Grandpre says. "Frankly, I'm surprised _more_ agents haven't been brought in."

Harlowe chews her lip and looks over her shoulder, toward the hospital. "We need eyes in there."

"I'll see what I can do," Daehler says, circling around to the back of the van.

The van is packed with equipment, most of it held together with gaffer tape and prayer. Daehler spends a few minutes tapping at a keyboard before he shakes his head. "No good. Whatever broke the windows also shattered the lenses in the security cameras. I can't get anything from the surveillance system."

Marsh checks his watch. "There should be a department satellite in position over California right about now. See if you can get something from that."

"Yeah, sure, let me just—whoa."

"'Whoa'?" Harlowe says.

"The satellite sent me an alert just as I logged in." Daehler says. "It's picked up some kind of radiation."

Marsh climbs into the van and peers over Daehler's shoulder at the display. "Bleed energy. Trace amounts. Not enough to be harmful."

Daehler looks at Marsh over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "I have no idea what that means."

"The Bleed is the space between realities," Marsh says. "Anything that passes through it tends to pick up this energy signature."

"Jesus. What the hell's in there?"

"Whatever it is, it's not local."

**α**

Someone, somewhere down the line decided Aeolia General needed state-of-the-art counter-terrorism measures. _Why_ is anyone's guess, but the system works perfectly. Upon activation, the metal shutters over every door and window close, leaving one, small staff entrance as the only point of access. Even then, a keycard is needed to get in or out.

"And we're sure there isn't some kind of supervirus in there?" Harlowe says, adjusting her earpiece. It feels like it's about to fall out any second now.

"The lockdown was manually triggered," comes the reply, Daehler's voice crackling a bit as Harlowe fiddles with the earpiece. He and Grandpre are still with the van. "In the event of a biological attack, the lockdown activates automatically. But all _that_ means is that a biological agent wasn't _detected_, so there could still be—"

"Matt, stop helping," Grandpre says. "Marsh, Harlowe, it's clear. Breach the perimeter when you're ready."

Harlowe takes a deep breath, shaking the tension out of her limbs. Marsh smirks at her and taps the keycard against the reader. The lock beeps, and Marsh pushes the door open. "We're in."

"Copy," Daehler says. "Make sure the first camera is pointed at the door."

Harlowe pulls a wireless video camera from the duffel slung over her shoulder and sticks it to the wall, just inside the door. The cameras are small—about the size of a cheap webcam—and connected to the van's wireless network, where Daehler will monitor the feeds. "First camera's up."

"Yep, I see you."

Marsh clips the keycard to his belt, next to his holster and the KA-BAR Harlowe got him for his birthday. "We're moving in."

"Acknowledged. Try to put at least one camera at every corner and intersection."

There's no blood splattered on the walls, no occult symbols drawn on the ceiling. Marsh and Harlowe move through the abandoned wing, guns drawn, checking every corner and setting up cameras, but nothing jumps out of the shadows.

It's almost worse, like this.

They're approaching the ER when Daehler says, "The camera by the exit just crapped out. Can somebody go fix it?"

"I'll go," Marsh says, turning and jogging the way they came. Harlowe continues down the hall and pushes the door to the ER open.

Whatever prompted the lockdown, it happened in here. Gurneys and equipment were knocked over in the rush to evacuate the wing. A doctor lies face-down on the floor.

Harlowe holsters her gun, kneels by the doctor, and checks for a pulse. There isn't one. She turns the body over. There are deep fingernail scratches on the doctor's face and a pen stabbed through his trachea.

"Marsh, I've got a body here. No sign of his attacker. Did you see anything on the way back?"

No response.

Harlowe taps the earpiece. "Daehler, is this thing working?"

"I can hear you," Daehler says.

Harlowe stands. "Marsh, come in." Nothing. "Caine!"

Daehler's voice comes back over the line. "His comm's working. I'm still getting ambients from his end."

Harlowe draws her sidearm and dashes back to the exit.

The broken camera is on the floor, next to the body of Caine Marsh. A shard of glass juts from his neck. The knife is missing from his belt, as is the security pass.

"Daehler. Grandpre. Marsh is down. Whatever did this, it's loose and headed your way!"

**α**

Grandpre leaps out of the van and holds up a hand to keep Daehler from following. "Stay here."

"You're going out there alone? Are you _insane?_"

"_Stay here_," Grandpre repeats, and slams the door shut.

Daehler slumps back into his chair, knee bouncing.

Something slams against the doors. Daehler jumps to his feet. "Chloe!"

No answer.

Daehler draws his gun and throws one of the doors open. There's nothing there.

He looks down. Chloe Grandpre lies on the pavement, her throat slashed ear to ear.

**α**

Stiles has never been to Greece before. His understanding of it, as a country, is that at any given moment it is either A) experiencing some sort of civil unrest, or B) _literally on fire_.

The chapel is about four miles out of Megalopoli, almost in the shadow of Mount Lykaios. There's a set of stone steps up the hill to the front door, and Lydia stops at the foot of them, puts her hands on her hips, and looks up at the modest stone building. "I don't know, Stiles. It doesn't look old enough."

"No, the _chapel_ was built in the twelfth century," Stiles says. "But it's built on the _foundations_ of a temple that stood in old Lycosura."

"Your ancient werewolf city?"

"It wasn't a werewolf city. It was a city that, very likely, had werewolves in it."

Lydia shakes her head and pushes past Stiles, heading up the stairs. "If this turns out the same way your Roman wolf cult did..."

"You keep bringing that up. Stop bringing that up. I said I was sorry."

When Stiles knocks on the door, the priest appears almost instantly and waves them inside. Lydia holds a quick conversation with him in Greek while Stiles waits patiently by the door and tries not to touch anything.

Lydia eventually concludes her business with the priest and strides back to Stiles. "He says what we're looking for is in the cellar."

**α**

The "cellar" turns out to be less accessible than Stiles anticipated. They have to climb down the other side of the hill—the _steep_ other side of the hill—to get to the entrance, and it takes the both of them working together to open even _one_ of the cellar doors.

The chamber is huge and nearly empty, lit by industrial string lights looped back and forth across the ceiling. Apparently the priest enlisted some help in preparing for their arrival; a space in the center of the room has been cleared, and the floor's been swept, revealing the huge, wheel-like design etched into the stone.

Lydia crouches at the edge. "Stiles, this is a lunar calendar."

Stiles can't help the grin that sneaks onto his face. "They had their own _calendar_," he says. "They had temples, and they had a _calendar_."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Lydia says.

"But it's _fun_." Stiles circles the calendar, following the progression of the phases. Waxing crescent, half, waxing gibbous, full...

Something under his foot goes _click_.

Behind Stiles, a panel opens in the floor, revealing a stone staircase wide enough for three men to walk side-by-side.

Stiles turns halfway and says, "Oh, that is _cool_."

Lydia stands directly across the calendar from Stiles, arms crossed. "No."

"Aw, come on."

"_No_. We don't know what's down there. It could be trapped."

"This was a _temple_, Lydia. You know, where people gathered. In large groups. A lot. They wouldn't build traps in it."

Lydia huffs out a breath and reaches up to tighten her ponytail. "Fine. But if something horrible happens, I'm blaming you."

"Noted."

Stiles digs a flashlight out of his shoulder bag and starts down the staircase. Lydia follows close behind.

The stairs are simple and unadorned, but the flashlight beam catches the edge of something painted on the walls and Stiles pauses, passing the light over them.

The walls aren't stone, but plaster, and the frescoes painted there mostly feature wolves and lightning bolts. At the center of each is a depiction of a raven perched on the back of a throne: on the left side, a man is seated on the throne, and on the right, a wolf.

"I think this is supposed to be the turning of Lycaon," Stiles says.

"Okay."

Stiles knows that "okay." That "okay" from Lydia means, "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I don't want to admit it."

"Seriously?" Stiles says. "All our work with werewolves, and you never bothered to look this up?"

"Stiles, remember how I was giving you such a hard time about not knowing that Brontosaurus isn't a real dinosaur?"

"Point taken." Stiles shines the light over the throne on the left side. "Lycaon was a king of Arcadia. A tyrant, by most accounts. There's a few different versions of the story. In some of them, a human child is sacrificed on the altar of Zeus; in others, Zeus comes calling at Lycaon's palace and is served human flesh. Either way, human blood is spilled in Zeus' name, and he gets _pissed_. Zeus curses Lycaon, and the king becomes a wolf."

"The first werewolf," Lydia says.

"Exactly."

Stiles continues downward. The room at the foot of the staircase isn't large; maybe two dozen people could fit in here, if they weren't too hung up on personal space. At the end of the room, furthest from the stairs, stands a stone altar adorned by a single carving: three sharp Vs, rotating around a central axis.

"I know that symbol from somewhere," Lydia says.

"It's a triskelion. They show up all over the place. Derek actually has a version of this as a tattoo."

Lydia gives Stiles a curious look. "A tattoo where?"

"On his back," Stiles says. There's a pause. "What?"

"Nothing." Lydia slowly turns, shining the flashlight around the room. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Nobody's been down here in a very, very long time. "So we've got a temple that used to be part of a city named after a werewolf, with paintings on the walls depicting the transformation of the first werewolf, and a symbol that can be traced to modern werewolves. Sounds pretty definitive."

Stiles bounces on his feet a little. "Yep."

"Okay, so where did all these werewolves _go?_"

**α**

Derek can't remember much of the nightmare. Just the sensation of a weight on his chest, and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He's been dreaming more, in the weeks since he killed Peter.

He lies on his back, slowly coming back to reality, and stares at the ceiling of the train car. It isn't safe to sleep in the house right now. The hunters are looking for him again; Derek saw them setting traps in the woods.

The old train depot isn't much of a step up from a condemned house in the forest, but he has a roof that isn't in danger of collapsing on his head and he's less likely to be killed in his sleep.

Derek rolls onto his side, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a slightly battered business card. _Special Agent Stilinski_ (the name between "Agent" and "Stilinski" furiously blacked out with a pen), an e-mail address, and then two phone numbers: office and mobile.

He called the mobile number a week ago, from a payphone at the gas station. It went straight to voicemail.

"_Hey, this is Agent Stilinski. My phone's off while I'm out of the country, but I'll be checking my __voicemail, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible._"

Derek hung up before the tone.

Even if he _did_ call again, what would he say?

_I had a bad dream._

_They're watching my house._

_I miss you._

Derek tucks the card back into his wallet and tries to go to sleep.

A wolf howls, mournful and long.

Derek sits bolt upright. That wasn't Scott. They're not pack (Derek asked; Scott refused), but Derek knows what Scott's howl sounds like, and that wasn't it.

There's another werewolf in Beacon Hills.

**α**

"The funeral is this weekend," Allison says. "The police finally released her body."

Of all the school counselors Allison's had to go see over the years, she likes Ms. Morrell the best. Mostly because Ms. Morrell's never uttered the words, "And how does that make you _feel?_"

Instead, Ms. Morrell says, "You miss her, don't you?"

"I do. That's not good, is it? I mean, she was a psychopath who killed ten people."

"You miss her because you loved her," Ms. Morrell says, in that soft, soothing voice of hers. She doesn't talk like this when she's teaching Allison's French class. She must practice with a tape recorder or something. "She was family. And I know your Aunt Kate must have loved you, in her own way." When Allison doesn't reply, Ms. Morrell adds, "I heard you broke up with Scott."

"Yeah," Allison says. She doesn't say, "My father tried to kill him." She doesn't say, "The only reason Scott's still alive is because I promised not to see him anymore."

She definitely doesn't say, "We aren't really broken up."

Allison _does_ say, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Ms. Morrell says. "How are things with your family?"

"My parents are trying to pretend like Kate never existed, unless they're talking about the funeral."

"So they haven't talked to you about what happened?"

Allison shrugs. "Sometimes they try. Then they change the subject. They really want me to get into the family business."

"Is that what _you_ want to do? Join the family business?"

"Not really," Allison says.

"What _do_ you want to do with your life?"

"I don't know."

**α**

Stiles takes back everything he ever said about Greece. They serve beer at McDonald's in this country.

He sits cross-legged in the grass under a tree in Syntagma Square, passing the time playing Solitaire with a deck of truly pornographic cards he bought from a newsstand.

Lydia's off doing... something. The point is, she's not here. Diviners freak her out.

"Agent Stilinski, yes?" he hears from above him. "I'm Celene. We spoke on the phone."

Stiles looks up from the cards. Celene sits on the grass in front of him, carefully arranging her legs beneath her long skirt. She's older than him, though still a young woman, and there's a faraway look in her eyes that won't go away.

"Interesting place to meet," Stiles says. "Not exactly Mount Parnassus, is it?"

Celene gives him a wry smile. "Times change."

"You're not wrong."

"So," Celene says. "You want to know the future, Agent Stilinski." Her English is good, if a little formal.

"Actually, right now I'm more interested in the past," Stiles replies.

"Oh?"

Stiles gathers up the cards and puts them away. "I want to know what happened to Lycaon's pack."

"The answer to that question is not a short one."

"I've got time."

Celene steeples her fingers in front of her mouth. "Very well. You are familiar with the Papal Inquisitions?"

"A bit."

"After Lycaon was turned, the wolves prospered and spread through Europe for centuries, but the Inquisitions culled their numbers. Lycaon's direct descendants remained in Greece, where the Pope had little influence."

"Okay," Stiles says. "So why'd they leave?"

Celene sighs. "First, you must understand that the wolf does not think as you or I do. His loyalty is not to his country, but to his pack. And while the Inquisition did not come to Greece, this does not mean the wolves were not hunted." A flash of distaste passes over Celene's expression. "So, when Constantinople fell, a deal was struck. Lycaon's children joined the Turks, and by their side, conquered Greece."

"And afterward?"

Celene lowers her hands into her lap. "Have you ever heard of the Imperial Hounds?"

**α**

Derek's been tracking the interloper for days, now. It never stays in one place for long, and it's alone. An Omega. No den, and no pack.

He finally catches up with the Omega at the cemetery. Oblivious to Derek's presence, the Omega digs, muttering as he does:

"... out of the deepest depth that the highest must come to its height... it is out of the deepest depth..."

The Omega is digging up a grave. Scavenging.

Not twenty feet from the Omega, an overturned backhoe lies atop a half-dug grave. Someone's trapped underneath it, panting in fear.

Derek's howl isn't a call, but a warning: _get out_.

The Omega yelps and leaps away from his dig site, fleeing into the woods. Derek lets him go and approaches the backhoe. He knows—in theory—that becoming the Alpha made him stronger, but he hasn't had an opportunity to test that strength.

No time like the present.

He grabs the edge of the backhoe's undercarriage and pulls. The metal groans in protest, but moves. Slowly and inevitably, the backhoe is levered back onto its treads.

There's a boy in the grave, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. If Derek had to guess, he'd put the kid's age at about sixteen. He looks up at Derek in awe; he's got one hell of a black eye.

Derek says, "Need a hand?"

The boy nods, shaky with adrenaline.

Derek kneels by the edge of the grave, extending his hand. When the kid takes it, Derek hefts him out of the pit.

A name catches Derek's eye as the boy brushes the dirt off his clothes. The headstone by the half-dug grave reads, "_Kate Argent. Beloved Daughter. 1983-2012._"

Sometimes, Derek forgets she's really dead.

"Thanks," the kid says. He stares at the righted backhoe. "Did you do that?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

Derek grins. "I'm a werewolf."

He doesn't know why he says it. Kate's right here, reminding him what happens when he isn't careful enough.

The kid chokes out a nervous laugh, then stops when he realizes Derek isn't laughing too. "What, seriously?"

"What's your name?"

"Isaac," the kid says.

"You hang out in graveyards a lot, Isaac?"

Isaac crosses his arms, defensive. "I work here. What's your excuse?"

The corner of Derek's mouth quirks up. Instead of giving an answer, he starts to gesture at Isaac's face but stops when the kid flinches. "How'd you get that black eye?"

"Lacrosse practice."

He's lying.

Derek says, "You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Isaac reeks of fear, but he's not afraid of Derek. Not really. He's been afraid so long, so constantly, it's become part of his normal scent.

"Someone's hurting you," Derek says. "And you're protecting them." Isaac bristles, but Derek barrels ahead, like the words are being pulled out of him. "I don't care who it is or why. I just want you to know that I can make that go away. Make it so nobody has the power to hurt you like that ever again."

Isaac's eyes narrow at him. "How do you expect to pull that off?"

Derek lets his eyes glow red.

Isaac stumbles away from Derek. "Holy fuck."

"I'll give you time to decide," Derek says, stepping back.

"Decide what?"

"If you want the bite. Come find me at the old train depot if the answer is 'yes.'"

And then Derek walks away, his self-preservation instincts screaming at him the whole way.

**α**

Dr. Reis is already seated at a table by the windows when Stiles and Lydia arrive at the Galata Tower restaurant. Stiles grabs Lydia's wrist and checks her watch. "He's early."

"He's nervous," Lydia replies, easing her wrist out of Stiles' grip and breezing past the hostess headed in their direction to sit across the table from Reis.

"You must be Special Agent Martin," Reis says, because everyone in the Mediterranean speaks English better than Stiles will ever speak any language in his entire life.

"Dr. Reis," Lydia says, offering her hand to shake. "This is my partner, Agent Stilinski."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Reis says. "I am curious as to why you've come to Istanbul, though. I could have easily answered your questions in an e-mail."

"E-mails can be lost or forgotten, Dr. Reis." Lydia crosses her ankles and automatically drapes her napkin over her lap. "Or waylaid. Our department likes to conduct business like this in person as much as possible."

"Of course." Reis reaches into his bag and pulls out a folder, placing it on the table beside him. "I gathered as much information on the Imperial Hounds as I could, although there wasn't a great deal to find. Not much was known about them. They were mostly a rumor."

"We'll take anything you can give us," Stiles says.

A waitress comes by to take their drink orders. Lydia politely declines for both herself and Stiles, while Stiles fiddles with a napkin and waits for the waitress to leave.

Once she's gone, Reis says, "Urban legends of the Imperial Hounds first began circulating in the late fifteenth century, shortly after the Ottoman conquest of Greece. It was said each of the Hounds was as strong as ten men, and could smell a lie from a hundred paces."

"Sounds familiar," Stiles mutters.

Lydia steps on his foot. "Please, go on."

"Rumors aside, there are financial records that indicate the Hounds actually did exist, and served the Ottoman government. Although 'served' may be too strong a term. The stories about them suggest a large degree of autonomy."

"So they were... what?" Stiles asks. "Some kind of secret police?"

"Most likely. The stories say they hunted fugitives from justice."

Stiles circles the rim of his water glass with a finger and ignores the face Lydia makes at the sound. "What happened to them? Did they fall with the Ottoman Empire?"

"Sooner than that," Reis says. "The Imperial Hounds disappeared from the records in the late nineteenth century. I found reports of a massacre of some kind, around that time. There were rumors for a while concerning a single survivor, but the Hounds never reappeared, on paper or in legend."

"Is that it?" Stiles says.

"I'm afraid so."

Lydia picks the file up off the table and stands, tucking it under her arm. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Reis."

"Should I be anticipating further inquiries from your department, Agent Martin?"

"I wouldn't rule out the possibility."

**α**

Derek parks his car at the edge of the preserve, then steps outside and strips, folding his clothes and leaving them in the car. He walks a few paces from the car and rolls his shoulders, letting the change come over him.

He hasn't shifted since he became an Alpha. If Derek is honest with himself, he's been putting it off.

It's different from shifting as a Beta. Deeper, more intense, and more _painful_. Bones shrink, grow, and reposition themselves. Thick black fur covers his body. Eventually, the increased weight in his neck and torso becomes too much to support on two legs, and he drops to all fours.

Derek catches the scent of the Omega and charges into the woods. It's time for the trespasser to leave.

It isn't long before he comes across the Omega in person. Derek chases him down, now too fast for the Omega to evade, and knocks him to the ground, pinning him.

"It's you," the Omega breathes. "It's really you. The new Lycaon."

Derek's ears flatten to his skull and he backs away, confused.

"She chose you." The Omega lurches to his feet. "You will bring salvation. You teach us the Overman. 'Mankind is something to be overcome!' You will show us the way."

The Omega takes a step back.

The snare snaps tight around his ankle, wrenching the Omega into the air.

Derek can hear the hunters coming. He rears onto his hind legs, looking for a weak spot in the trap. His claws might just be sharp enough to cut the wire...

"Go," the Omega says.

Derek growls. Like hell.

"_Go,_" the Omega repeats. "Without me, nothing changes. Without you, we're lost."

The hunters are getting closer. Derek whines and looks up at the wire. There isn't enough _time_.

With a last, apologetic look at the Omega, Derek drops to all fours and runs.

He stops at the top of the ridge, hidden among the rocks and undergrowth, as the hunters approach. Chris Argent is there, along with his usual gang of drop-outs and delinquents.

An old man is with them. Derek knows better than to underestimate him; any man who lives to seventy while hunting werewolves for a living is more dangerous than he looks.

The Omega is strung up like a piece of meat. The old man speaks to the assembled hunters, as if delivering a lecture. Argent calls him "Gerard."

Then one of the hunters steps forward, and Gerard draws the broadsword the hunter carries.

Chris protests. Derek catches the words, "we have a code."

"Not when they murder my daughter," Gerard says. He swings the sword.

The smell of blood fills the air. The upper half of the Omega's body drops to the ground.

**α**

Back at the train depot, Derek finds himself staring at the card again. He can think more clearly when Stiles isn't here, when Derek isn't wrapped up in his scent and the sound of his voice and the fact that someone actually seems to _care_ what happens to him. Derek can think about all the reasons it's a bad idea to get involved with a cop who hunts people like him for the government.

It doesn't change the fact that he wishes Stiles were here, waving his badge around and threatening to arrest people who could kill him in a heartbeat.

But Stiles isn't here. Derek is alone.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears someone coming down the stairs.

"Yes," Isaac says. The black eye is almost gone; there's a firm set to his mouth. "The answer is yes."

Derek takes a shuddering breath as he stands, tucking the card into his pocket. "There are some people you should know about, first."

**α**

**Next: "A Friend for the Lonesome"**


	2. A Friend for the Lonesome

**Notes:** So you know that old saying, "write what you know"? Well, apparently what I know is "people being miserable in airports." Beta'd by Dusty, who has been trained since childhood to drink beer upside down, and heckled by Poicephalus, whose notes were mostly pornographic.

**Chapter Two: "A Friend for the Lonesome"**

He's running through the woods, chasing an impossible trail.

He's skidding to a halt when he sees the man. The man standing with his back turned, staring up at the moon.

He's shifting, not caring that his clothes are in a cache by the house. The man is family.

He's placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Peter?"

He's doubling over as the man's claws plunge into his stomach.

Perspective shifts.

He's clawing his way through Laura's gut, digging for her spine, trying to sever it before she can shift again.

He's watching as the red glow bleeds from her eyes.

**α**

Derek wakes in a cold sweat, shaking and nauseous.

The dreams are coming every night, now. Derek guesses it's only been a few hours since he went to sleep.

He can't stay here.

Outside. He needs to be outside.

**α**

There are a few drawbacks to flying on the government's dime, and one of those drawbacks is "absolutely batshit layovers." Case in point: Stiles and Lydia's trip from Istanbul to the Americas involved stops in Madrid, Frankfurt, fucking _Moscow_, Helsinki, Heathrow, and finally Toronto. In that order.

And now it's the middle of the night and they're laid over in Sea-Tac, which is convenient for Stiles on his way to California—even though he's going to be laid over here until Judgment Day—but not for Lydia on her way to _Virginia_.

Stiles is pretty sure he's actually traveled _backwards in time_. He slumps face-first across a table in front of the Starbucks, which isn't exactly conducive to keeping an eye on his luggage, but at this point his dirty laundry could probably serve as some sort of biological anti-theft system.

He smells coffee, which means Lydia's come back. There's the scrape of a chair, and Lydia says, "I _told_ you to sleep on the plane."

"Can't sleep on planes," Stiles groans.

"You can sleep _anywhere_."

"Not on planes."

"Hmm. I'd offer to get you a coffee, but that wouldn't help."

Stiles groans again. "Stupid brain."

"Did you remember to take your pills? I know it's been Thursday for about thirty hours now, but that doesn't mean—"

"Yes, _Mom_."

Lydia falls silent, and Stiles lets the airport noise wash over him. He doesn't sleep, but the all-encompassing buzz lulls him into a sort of trance until Lydia starts poking him and saying, "Stiles. _Stiles_."

"Mmphgl," Stiles says.

"My plane's boarding in fifteen minutes. Are you going to be okay on your own?"

"I'll be fine," Stiles says. Or something approximating that. There are noises coming out of him, at least.

"You really shouldn't go straight from active duty to... whatever it is you'll be doing in Beacon Hills. Come back home. Take a few days off."

Stiles shakes his head, nose rubbing against the surface of the table. "Nah."

He can hear the smirk in Lydia's voice. "That eager to see him, huh?"

Stiles lifts his head off the table, bleary-eyed. "Lydia, I shudder to imagine what Derek could have gotten into while I'm not there."

**α**

The thunderstorm comes out of nowhere. Derek's absolutely drenched by the time he gets back to the train depot.

Derek hears Isaac breathing before he sees him sitting at the foot of the stairs. Isaac looks over his shoulder, sees Derek, and shoots to his feet. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Derek says, moving past Isaac and towards his train car. "What are you doing here?"

Isaac's shaking, and not from the cold. "I think my dad is dead."

Derek stops, feeling the blood in his veins turn to lead. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! I didn't do it!"

Derek sits on the steps of the train car, mind racing. Isaac's telling the truth. And the Omega's dead. _Very_ dead. "Tell me what happened."

"We were talking about my grades. He started throwing stuff. There was a glass." Isaac speaks quickly, dully, as if what he's describing happened to somebody else. He swallows. "He saw me heal."

Derek laces his fingers together because if he doesn't, they'll clench into fists. "I told you to be careful."

"_I know_." Isaac runs his fingers through his hair, pacing. "I ran, I started to come here, but then I heard something and there was my dad's car and he—"

The fingers in Isaac's hair are twisting, _hard_. Derek wants to get up and pull Isaac's hands away, make him stop _pacing_, but he doesn't.

"Derek, what do I do?"

Derek brings his hands up to his mouth; tries to think. "Have the police found the body yet?"

"I don't know."

"Okay." Derek lets out a long breath. "Go home. Go to school. You never saw the body. You were never here. Got it?"

Isaac wraps his arms around himself, hands tucked into his armpits, and nods, eyes down.

Derek stands and pulls the card from his pocket, turning it over in his hands.

He holds it out to Isaac. "If they—if you're in trouble, and I can't get to you, call this number."

Isaac takes the card, puzzled, but shoves it in his pocket anyway.

**α**

Allison's running late, so she grabs a muffin from the kitchen and heads straight for her car.

Or, she tries to.

"Need a ride, sweetheart?"

Gerard—Grampa—no, Gerard, definitely Gerard—is standing by his car, hands in his coat pockets. He arrived the day of Kate's funeral, and for some reason hasn't left yet. Allison has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with Derek.

Her parents haven't told Gerard about Scott. Wait, that's not true; Gerard knows about Scott. Just not _all_ about him.

Allison gives Gerard a shy smile. "It's fine. I can drive myself."

"You sure? I'm going to the school anyway."

"I'm sure." Allison unlocks her car and pauses with her hand on the door handle. "... Why are you going to my school?"

Gerard chuckles. "Principal Chaney took a rather abrupt leave of absence, so I'll be filling in for him until the school board can find a replacement."

"So... you're my new principal."

"That won't be too awkward, will it?"

Allison pulls the car door open a little too abruptly. "No, it's fine."

"I'll see you at school, then."

"Yeah."

**α**

Allison is pretty sure her parents are monitoring her phone records. They'd know if she were calling or texting Scott. Same goes for e-mail.

What Allison's parents haven't accounted for is the empty locker by the Chem lab. A locker with a fresh lock on it, that both Allison and Scott know the combination to.

She checks the locker just before first period. There's a slip of paper inside:

_jackson asked me for the bite again. he said he'd tell you about me if i said no and called me a freak when i wouldn't stop laughing._

_also dr. deaton's back but he won't talk about what happened with derek._

Allison shoves the note in her pocket, reminding herself to flush it later, then tears a page out of her notebook and writes, _New principal is my grandfather. Probably a hunter. Doesn't know about you. Watch out_.

She checks the dead drop again on her way to second period.

_i'll be careful._

_i can smell another werewolf in the school. not derek._

Allison hastily scribbles a reply: _Can you tell who?_

She takes a bathroom break during third period and checks again:

_trying. too many people_.

Allison returns to Chemistry class, not bothering to leave a note.

Mr. Harris is halfway through a lecture on noble gases when there's a knock on the door. Gerard steps into the classroom, followed by Sheriff Stilinski.

"Isaac Lahey?"

Isaac's desk is at the back of the classroom, wedged into a corner. His shoulders tense, and he says, "Yeah?"

Gerard turns to Mr. Harris. "Excuse me, Adrian, but we need to steal Isaac from you."

Mr. Harris looks like he can't decide between being annoyed over the interruption or morbidly intrigued by the presence of the sheriff. "Of course."

The sheriff leads Isaac out of the classroom.

**α**

It's risky, meeting Scott during the school day, but the Smoking Hole is secluded from the rest of the campus and this is an emergency.

"What did you hear?" Allison says, as Scott scrambles down the slope and under the bridge.

"Isaac's dad was killed last night," Scott replies. "Jackson lives across the street and saw Isaac and his dad arguing, then they both took off."

"So they think Isaac killed his dad?"

"It gets worse," Scott says. "That werewolf I could smell all around the school? He was in the office, too. It's Isaac."

Allison gapes. "_Isaac Lahey _is a werewolf? He looks about nine years old!"

"He's new. I think. I would have noticed before."

"So maybe Isaac really did kill his dad."

"Maybe." Scott doesn't sound convinced.

"Wait, wait, wait." Allison checks the date on her phone. "It's the full moon tonight."

"Yeah."

"Can the cells at the police station hold a werewolf?"

"I... don't know. I can ask Stiles, but he's still in Europe or something." Scott chews his lip. "We should do something."

"What about you? Won't the full moon be affecting you, too?"

"I can control it," Scott says, "now that the Alpha's not making it worse. Well, kind of. I need to be alone, somewhere I feel safe."

"And if you're in a police station with a new werewolf who's going through his first full moon?"

"... Probably not."

"Okay." Allison crosses her arms, tapping her phone against her chin, thinking. "Okay. Stay home tonight. I'll take care of it."

"How?"

"... I'll think of something."

Allison starts back up the slope, but pauses when she feels Scott's hand on her arm. Scott gives her a quick kiss. "Be careful."

"I will."

**α**

Stiles turns his phone back on the millisecond the plane's tires hit pavement in Sacramento, ignoring the evil glares the flight attendants shoot his way because he is a _federal agent_, goddammit.

The phone beeps at him. One new voicemail message. One new voicemail message he most definitely didn't have when the plane left SeaTac.

"_Uh... hi._" Stiles doesn't recognize the voice. "_I... my name's Isaac. Derek said I should call this number if I need help._"

Oh, this sounds bad.

"_My dad's dead. They think I did it. I'm at the police station now, and it's the full moon tonight, and I don't know what's gonna happen._" A nervous exhale. "_God, this is stupid. Just. If you can do anything. Maybe tell Derek where I am. I dunno. Uh. Bye._"

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Stiles slams his head back against the seat, earning him another glare from the flight attendants.

It's almost 3:00. If he's lucky, and maybe breaks a few traffic laws, he might just be able to make it to Beacon Hills in time.

**α**

Allison needs to talk to her dad. The door to his study is closed, but Allison can hear voices inside.

"... a _child_." That's her father's voice. "He's sixteen years old, for god's sake."

"He's a werewolf," Gerard says. "And he's already killed once."

"We don't know that for sure."

"The police seem fairly convinced. How many of them do you think Isaac Lahey will slaughter tonight if we don't stop him?"

Her father doesn't answer.

The door handle turns. Allison backtracks down the hall and around a corner as the door opens.

She faintly recognizes the man who steps out of the study, although the last time she saw him he wasn't dressed in a deputy's uniform. He's got some kind of syringe in his hand, filled with a dark burgundy solution.

Wolfsbane.

The hunter carefully places the syringe in a padded box and heads for the front door. Allison ducks out the kitchen door, circling around to the front of the house, and sees the hunter climb into a black SUV and pull out of the driveway.

As soon as he's far enough away that she won't be seen, Allison gets into her own car and follows.

**α**

As it turns out, it is entirely possible to hit a hundred miles an hour in a rental Honda Fit. Although Stiles probably isn't getting that deposit back.

When Stiles staggers through the front doors of the Beacon Hills police station, the desk sergeant says, "Agent Stilinski?"

"I'm off-duty," Stiles says, leaning against the counter and waiting for the feeling to come back in his legs. "Is the Sheriff in?"

"He's on traffic duty tonight."

"Crap." Stiles gives the desk sergeant his standard appease-the-locals smile. "I need a favor."

Judging by the look on her face, the desk sergeant isn't buying it. Probably because Stiles is still wearing his 'I Want Human Bacon' t-shirt. "What kind of favor?"

"You've got a kid named Isaac in custody?"

"Isaac Lahey. Primary suspect in his father's murder. He's not involved in one of your weird cases, is he?"

"Dunno yet." Stiles sees the annoyed set to the desk sergeant's mouth and hastily adds, "I don't need you to hand him over or anything. I just want to talk to him."

The desk sergeant sighs. "Down the hall, to the left."

"Thanks."

**α**

"Isaac?"

The kid's locked up in the barred cell that usually functions as the drunk tank. Isaac starts when he hears Stiles' voice. "Yeah?"

Stiles stands about a foot from the bars, hands in his pockets. "My name's Stiles. I'm a friend of Derek's. You left me a message."

Isaac watches Stiles for a moment, looking wary. "Derek trusts you?"

"Derek doesn't trust anybody."

Isaac looks back down at the floor.

Stiles grabs a chair and moves it closer to the cell, settling into it. "So. You're a werewolf?"

Isaac flinches, then says, "Yeah."

"And this is your first full moon."

"Yeah."

"Okay." Stiles leans forward, hands on his elbows. "The moon can't make you shift. It just puts you on a hair-trigger, makes the change easier to happen. The change itself is set off by adrenaline response. You know what that is?"

Isaac snarls, "I'm not an idiot."

"I never said you were," Stiles says carefully. "You need to stay calm, Isaac. As long as you're calm, nothing will happen."

Isaac nods and leans forward, tangling his fingers into his hair.

Stiles hears Isaac's breathing start to even out, and footsteps coming into the lockup. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder; just one of the deputies. Safe to ignore, although Stiles gives him a quick nod before turning his attention back to Isaac.

The arm across his throat is a surprise.

About the best self-defense maneuver Stiles can manage under the circumstances is a panicked flail. The chair goes crashing to the floor. Stiles tries to pry the arm away from his neck, with no luck.

The options start to run through Stiles' head—strike to the groin, elbow in the solar plexus, stomp on the arch of the foot—but his sleep-deprived brain can't decide on one and instead, of its own volition, his body decides to drop to the floor as dead weight. It still isn't enough to dislodge his attacker.

His vision starts to go dark around the edges. Distantly, he hears Isaac yelling. Snarling. Can't tell which.

Then the grip on Stiles' throat goes lax, and he gasps and collapses to the floor, a weight on his back.

Stiles pushes the deputy—the very _unconscious_ deputy—off him, gulping down air.

"Agent Stilinski?"

Stiles blinks a few times to clear his vision. "Allison?" His voice is hoarse. There's a baton in Allison's hand; a baton she pulled from the now-unconscious deputy's belt. "Did you just assault a police officer?"

"He's not a real cop. He's a hunter."

"Oh. That's okay, then." He points at the baton, still a little dazed. "You really shouldn't hit people over the head with those."

Allison's answer is drowned out by the screech of tearing metal.

The door to the cell is open. Isaac stands at the threshold, eyes glowing, fangs and all.

He takes a step toward Stiles and Allison, muscles tensed.

"Shit," Stiles breathes.

Isaac lunges.

A hand closes around the back of Isaac's neck, yanking him away.

Derek grips Isaac by the scruff of the neck and growls low in his throat. Isaac shrinks into Derek's hold, whimpering. In fear or supplication or both, Stiles can't tell.

When Derek looks at Stiles, for a moment the stern reproach in his eyes is replaced by fear. "You okay?"

Stiles clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. You couldn't have shown up sooner?"

Derek's about to say something, but he stops and cocks his head. "Someone's coming."

Fuck. Too many explanations needed, too little time.

"Allison, get out of here," Stiles says. "You too, Derek. Take Isaac."

Allison nudges the not-deputy with her foot. "But what about—?"

"I'll take care of it. Just go."

Derek hesitates for a moment, then nods and drags Isaac from the room. Allison isn't far behind.

**α**

"I must have grayed out," Stiles says, pressing an ice pack to the bruises on his neck. "When I came to, Isaac was gone and your mystery guy was on the floor."

Sheriff Stilinski sighs and leans back in his chair, making it creak. "Well, that's just great. Welcome back to Beacon Hills, Stiles."

"Thanks. I'm feeling really loved and accepted right now."

"What were you doing in the lockup, anyway?"

Stiles shifts the icepack to a new spot. "Classified. Sorry."

"I wish I could say I was surprised." The sheriff looks Stiles over, eyes lingering on the bruises. "You look terrible. Should someone be checking you for brain damage?"

"I think it's too late for that."

"How long you been awake?"

"Uh, forty-something hours? I think? Time zones. Don't look at me like that, anything under seventy-two hours is Easy Mode."

Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head, probably wondering how Stiles is still alive. "All right. Get some sleep. I'll follow up with you tomorrow."

"Okay. Yeah. Night."

Stiles levers himself out of the chair and shuffles out of his dad's office. On his way out of the station, he deposits the ice pack on the front desk.

The parking lot is practically empty this time of night. And apparently Stiles double-parked and didn't notice at the time. Whoops.

He's about ten feet from the car when a black SUV pulls into the lot.

It rolls to a stop directly in front of him.

**Next: "Misbegotten"**


	3. Misbegotten

**Notes:** Beta'd Poicephalus, who is the worst human being alive, and by Dusty, who is now trying to reach a Nirvana state of Poicephalus-level annoying. This can only end in tears.

**Chapter Three: "Misbegotten"**

The SUV's engines turn off. The driver-side door opens.

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks in the glare from the headlights. "... Harley?"

Special Agent Rebecca Harlowe hops out of the SUV. "We came when we heard about the break-in. I thought you were on that fact-finding thing in Europe."

"I just got back," Stiles says.

Another guy Stiles doesn't recognize gets out of the jeep.

Harley says, "Matt, this is Agent Stilinski. The first time we met, he said, and I swear this is true, 'as a white dude, I'd like to apologize for all the evils in the world.'"

Stiles groans, "Jesus, do you have to tell _everybody_ about that?"

"Yes, because it's hilarious."

"In my defense, I'd been drinking in the bathroom all night because of Lydia's sweater."

Harley shakes her head, smiling. "Anyway, Stiles, this is Matt Daehler. He talks to machines."

Stiles reaches over to shake Matt's hand. "Do they talk back?"

Matt says, "Heard that one, thanks."

"Wait," Stiles says. "Harley, I thought you were partnered with Marsh."

Harley's easy mood evaporates. "... He's dead."

"Oh. Shit."

"That's kind of why we're here, actually," Matt says. "Something attacked a hospital in Aeolia and killed two agents. We tracked it here."

"You think it killed Lahey?" Stiles says.

Harley shrugs. "Maybe. I'm gonna try to get a look at the autopsy report without drawing too much attention. This town's a fucking powder keg."

Stiles wants to ask what, exactly, Harley means by that, but the adrenaline picks that exact moment to wear off and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. "Okay, I'll be around if you guys need me, but right now I need to go fall down."

He turns around and starts toward his car. Harley says, "Stiles? One last thing."

"Yeah?"

"Where's Isaac Lahey?"

Stiles rubs at his eyes and turns around. "With Derek Hale. Isaac's a werewolf."

"Hale?" Matt sounds impressed. "I read his dossier. Can we trust him?"

"_I_ think so," Stiles replies. "But I've been wrong before."

**α**

Stiles sleeps the sleep of the severely jet-lagged and wakes up at an ungodly hour of the morning.

He looks over at the cheap radio clock on the motel nightstand. 5 AM. His meds make it hard to stay asleep, but not to this extent. This is ridiculous.

Some fresh air might help. Stiles stumbles out onto the walkway; his room's on the second floor. It's too early in the year for the sun to be coming up just yet, but there's a dingy glow on the horizon, and down in the parking lot Derek fucking Hale is leaning against the side of his car.

Stiles yells, "How long you been down there?"

Derek's shoulders tense and his head snaps up. Apparently he wasn't paying attention. "Not long."

He's maybe lying. Stiles likes Derek, but the guy is a fucking creeper. "Come on up, then."

The motel room isn't terrible, by Stiles' standards, but Stiles' standards are legendarily low. Derek stands just inside the door, hands in his jacket pockets and looking uneasy, like the ugly comforter is going to attack him any second now.

What Stiles' sleep-deprived brain notices first is that Derek's got a new jacket. Which makes sense, considering the last one looked like Swiss cheese by the time Peter, Kate, and Allison were done with it.

And Stiles is standing in front of the guy he's kind-of-sort-of seeing, who's a werewolf, while Stiles is wearing nothing but pajama pants and a t-shirt, after abetting said werewolf in breaking another, teenage werewolf out of jail, and all he can think to open with is, _Hey, I see you got a __new jacket._

At some point, his life got weird.

Stiles decides to skip the opening line and instead says, "How's Isaac?"

"Safe," Derek says. "The worst of it is over. He's staying somewhere the hunters won't find him."

Derek's eyes drop to the bruises on Stiles' throat and stay there. His hand comes up and his fingers brush against Stiles' neck, ginger and hesitant like he's not sure he's allowed.

"It's fine," Stiles says. "I've had worse."

"You were right," Derek says, almost to himself. "I should've been there sooner."

"Oh my god, I was joking." Stiles sighs and slips a hand around the back of Derek's neck. "Come here."

Derek pushes into the kiss eagerly, hands clenching in Stiles' shirt. Stiles actually has to stagger backwards under Derek's weight.

"Missed me?" Stiles says with a smirk.

"Yes," Derek breathes, and buries his face in the crook of Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply. All the tension goes out of his body.

"I hope I get used to that sometime soon." Stiles runs the fingers of one hand across Derek's scalp. Derek is getting very heavy. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

"Not really," Derek admits.

"I can tell. You look terrible." When Derek lifts his head from Stiles' shoulder to give him an unamused look, Stiles says, "Terrible by Derek Hale standards. Which means you're still prettier than, like, ninety percent of the human population."

"'Pretty'?"

"Own it." Stiles nudges Derek toward the bed. "Come on, at least lie down for a bit."

Derek offers only token resistance as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Stiles..."

"I'll keep watch. It's okay."

Derek relents and reaches down to unlace and remove his shoes, then lies back on the bed. Before long, he's asleep.

**α**

He opens the front door and finds her on the porch, looking out at the woods.

"Laura?"

She smiles. "Hey, there you are."

"I was looking for _you_," Derek says.

"You can't keep running to me every time you're in trouble, Derek." The smile drops from Laura's face. "One day I won't be here."

Derek smells smoke. The charred floorboards creak under his weight.

"You need to be careful, Derek. You can't let her under your skin."

"What are you talking about?"

Laura's foot sweeps Derek's ankle out from under him. He crashes to the deck.

A hand pulls him up to his knees. Claws sink deep into his shoulder, digging, searching. Derek screams.

He looks up, begging Laura to stop, but it isn't Laura above him.

It's a woman he doesn't recognize, her fangs bared. A woman with dusky skin and red, red eyes.

**α**

Derek startles awake in an unfamiliar bed that smells like Stiles.

He's been here before; bedridden after the Alpha nearly ripped his spine out in the school parking lot. Maybe he's still there. Maybe everything that happened since was some kind of fever dream.

Then the details start to filter in: different bed, different room. He hears Stiles' voice and turns his head: Stiles sits cross-legged in a chair across the room, with his computer on his lap, chattering away on his phone.

"I actually never _un_packed them, so you don't have to worry about packing them. Just have the department ship the boxes to Beacon Hills."

"_Your apartment key's still in your desk, right?_" That's Agent Martin's voice on the other end of the line.

"Should be, unless Dave moved it again."

"_Which is possible. So if you're researching this mystery monster, does that mean you're back __on the clock?_"

"Nope, still on vacation. And before you ask: no, I don't need you to come out here. You've got work to do."

"_Director Lei won't be reviewing my Project Shadow proposal for another few weeks. And you need someone watching your back._"

"It's fine, Lydia. Really."

"_If you say so. I'll get those books sent over._" The call ends.

Stiles glances over at the bed and notices Derek's awake. "Hey."

"Hey." Derek sits up and rubs a hand over his eyes. "How long was I asleep?"

"Fourteen hours and a bit."

Derek's hand drops into his lap. He looks over at the clock; it's after 7:00. "You let me sleep the whole day?"

"Well, I was going to wake you up at noon, but you tried to bite me." Stiles sees Derek's stricken look and hastily adds, "Kidding! That was a joke. A stupid joke. Sorry."

Derek shifts to sit on the edge of the bed. "I need to go check on Isaac."

"Oh, right, I've been meaning to ask," Stiles says. "Who bit Isaac? Did Scott lose control? Is there another werewolf in town I don't—?"

"I bit him," Derek interrupts.

He gets dead silence in response. Stiles stares at him, mouth slightly open, before shaking his head as if to clear it. "Ha ha. Funny Derek. This is you getting back at me for the biting joke, right?"

"No," Derek says, resolute. "I turned Isaac."

"Are you _high?_" Stiles yelps, shooting to his feet, just barely rescuing the laptop from tumbling to the floor. "What were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking? He's a fucking _teenager_, he can't—"

"His father liked to lock him in a freezer, Stiles!" Derek snaps. "As 'punishment!' And that's not even the worst thing he did. Isaac was powerless. What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't suppose it occurred to you to _call the fucking cops?_ No, of course not, what am I saying?" Stiles scrubs his hands over his hair and starts to pace.

"I told Isaac about the hunters." Derek stays on the bed, staring down at his clasped hands, not looking at Stiles. "I told him about every drawback I could possibly think of. He still wanted it."

Eventually, Stiles lets out a long, explosive sigh. "Okay. There's nothing we can do about it now. You're looking out for him, right?"

"He's a member of my pack," Derek says, finally meeting Stiles' eyes. "I'll train him. Teach him control."

Stiles nods stiffly, then crosses the room and sits beside Derek on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder. He chews his lip and says, "You know I'm on your side, right?"

Derek swallows. "Yeah," he says, and only slightly fails at sounding casual.

"Good. Oh _shit_, I almost forgot!"

Stiles lunges for the chair. There's a shopping bag hanging off the back that Derek didn't notice before, and Stiles digs around in it until he finds what he's looking for and tosses it to Derek.

It's a small cellphone, the disposable kind.

"That's for you," Stiles says. "It's got like a hundred minutes on it already, but you can buy more at the gas station."

"What's this for?"

"So I can call you, idiot. I know the idea of people being able to find you when they need to ruins your werewolf mystique or whatever, but the rest of us live in this thing called 'the 21st Century' and would love it if you joined the party."

A small smile sneaks onto Derek's face. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now go keep Isaac out of trouble."

**α**

The alarm goes off. Allison groans.

If her parents are going to kidnap her in the middle of the night for "training sessions," the least they could do is let her sleep in the next morning.

There's a sharp rap on her door. "Allison! School!"

No such luck.

Allison eventually stumbles downstairs and into the kitchen, and as soon as she does so her parents' hushed conversation abruptly stops.

"What?"

"It's nothing," her dad says.

Her mom gives him a look. "Chris."

Dad sighs. "Allison, when's the last time you saw Bennett?"

"Last night." It was Bennett's job to keep an eye on her during last night's training exercise at the Hale house. He's one of her dad's hunters, a local twenty-something who, unlike most of the hunters in Beacon Hills, actually seems like a decent human being.

Her parents exchange a quick look she can't decipher. Allison asks, "Is he okay?"

"He's missing," Mom says.

Dad interrupts with, "I'm sure he just forgot to report in. Nothing you need to worry about. You should get to school."

Allison _hates_ it when people tell her not to worry about something.

**α**

The hospital is busy enough this time of day that Derek can pass more or less unnoticed. He waits in the hall outside the examination room as the nurse—Scott's mother; Derek recognizes her—runs her patient through the usual who-what-when.

Erica Reyes, just turned sixteen. Isaac told Derek about her. Infant meningitis left her deaf in one ear and led to epileptic seizures once she hit puberty. She's supposed to be on a cocktail of medications to prevent them.

Evidently she hasn't been taking the meds. Erica had a grand mal seizure at school today.

Melissa McCall finishes her checks and tells Erica the doctor will be in soon. As soon as Melissa is out of sight, Derek steps in and closes the door behind him.

Erica eyes him from her spot on the exam table, wary. "You're not the doctor."

"No. My name's Derek. We have a mutual friend."

Erica squares her shoulders and glares at him. Even exhausted and in pain, she refuses to show weakness.

"Why'd you get back on the wall, Erica?" Derek asks.

Erica's eyes narrow. "What?"

"The climbing wall at your school. Your gym teacher said you didn't have to do it, but you came back after class and tried again anyway. Why?"

"How do you know that?"

"I know how to listen." Derek steps toward the exam table, puts his hands on the edge. "Why'd you go back?"

Erica watches him for a moment, then lifts her chin and looks Derek right in the eyes. "Because no pansy-ass climbing wall gets to beat _me_."

Derek smiles. She's perfect.

**α**

Most of the buzz around Erica's seizure yesterday has died down. Allison asked around if Erica was okay, but was met with apathy at almost every turn. Someone in the senior class may or may not be pregnant; Erica is old news.

Or, she was.

In a matter of seconds, everyone milling in the hall before first period drops into stunned silence.

Erica is nearly unrecognizable. She's traded in her sweats and oversize t-shirt for fitted jeans and a leather jacket, she's actually wearing _makeup_, and she walks with a confidence that Allison's never seen in her before.

Most importantly, there's something predatory in Erica's eyes as she regards the students around her.

Allison catches Scott's eye across the hall. Scott's nostrils flare; he looks at Allison and nods once, slowly.

Erica's a werewolf.

**α**

Scott comes rushing out of the back room as soon as Stiles enters the animal clinic.

"I heard about the police station," Scott says, his anxiety making the words run together. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just a few bruises. They're almost healed."

"That was a risky move, Agent Stilinski." Dr. Deaton appears from the back room as well, shirt sleeves rolled up and hands in his pockets. "Putting yourself in a room with a newly-turned werewolf on a full moon."

"I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders," Stiles says. "Good to see you're back in town, Doctor. Derek didn't scare you off for good?"

"Derek needed to focus on finding the Alpha, and he couldn't have done that as long as I was distracting him," Deaton replies smoothly. "So I removed myself from the situation."

Scott sees the tension in Stiles' frame and says, "It's okay, Stiles. He's one of the good guys."

"But not a werewolf," Stiles guesses. Scott shakes his head. "So what are you, then? Some kind of shaman or something?"

Deaton sounds far too amused when he says, "I'm a veterinarian."

"Right. So why did you want to talk to me?"

"_I _wanted to talk to you," Scott says. "About Derek. He's turning people."

"Yeah, he told me about—wait. '_People_'? Plural?"

"He turned a girl in my class. Erica."

Stiles doesn't consider himself an angry person. Which is probably why he can _feel_ his blood pressure rising.

Deaton steps forward. "Derek's playing a very dangerous game, Agent Stilinski. The Argents aren't going to take this news well. And he's putting a great deal of power in the hands of unstable teenagers."

"Well if he hasn't heard that from anyone else yet, he's about to," Stiles says. "Loudly. Thanks for the tip."

As Stiles turns to leave, Scott says, "Stiles. Derek needs at least three betas in his pack. And I won't join him. I think he's going to turn someone else. Soon."

**α**

It's Erica who gives Derek the name: Boyd. He's got a full name, but "Boyd" is all anyone remembers.

The skating rink closes at nine, but it's closer to ten by the time Boyd finishes closing up. As he locks the doors, Derek approaches, Erica and Isaac by his side.

"We're closed," Boyd says, not even looking at Derek.

"Actually, I was hoping to talk," Derek says.

Boyd turns around, slowly, and relaxes slightly when he sees Isaac and Erica. "What about?"

"The fact that you're here alone," Derek says. "No friends here to pick you up. In fact, from what Erica and Isaac tell me, you're pretty much always alone."

"Maybe I like it that way," Boyd says.

"Maybe," Derek concedes. "Want to hear me out anyway?"

Boyd's gaze flicks to Isaac. "The cops are looking for you, Lahey. They think you ran off to hide with family or something."

"Don't have much family left," Isaac drawls with a toothy grin. "Derek's the next best thing."

"Is that right?" Boyd says flatly.

Isaac doesn't reply, just lets his eyes flash yellow.

To his credit, Boyd doesn't yell or jump back; merely takes one small half-step away.

"I'm here to make you an offer, Boyd," Derek says. "Become one of us, and you'll never be alone again."

Voice shaking only a little, Boyd says, "I don't think it's that simple."

"No, it's not," Derek replies. "Think on it. If you decide you're interested, come to the old train depot."

Derek turns to leave. Behind him, he hears Erica approach Boyd.

"It's worth it," she says. "It's so worth it."

**α**

Derek is settling in for the night at the train depot when the burner phone's screen lights up. Apparently it was on silent; the display shows six missed calls.

Isaac stares at the phone in Derek's hand, eyebrows raised. "Since when do you have a phone?"

Derek ignores him and answers. "Stiles?"

"_Care to explain why you bit another teenager?_" comes the ear-splitting reply.

Derek winces and holds the phone away from his ear. "That was really loud."

"_I get loud when people I like do stupid and possibly illegal things!"_ Stiles snaps. _"What the hell are you thinking? The Argents—_"

"The Argents are the reason I'm doing this in the first place, Stiles."

Stiles' voice softens. "_Derek, you're not going to fix anything by building some kind of anti-hunter army. You'll just provoke the Argents and this will end with me cleaning up a massacre._"

Derek hears a series of _thuds_ on the stairs—footsteps, getting louder. The banister creaks as someone puts more weight on it than they should.

"Stiles, I'll call you back."

"_What? No. Derek, if you hang up on me—"_

Derek snaps the phone shut and turns to face the stairs. "Hello, Boyd."

**α**

Eventually, Stiles gives up trying to call Derek and turns in for the night, seething.

He's woken up absurdly early the next morning by a loud, precise knock.

"It says 'do not disturb,'" Stiles yells in the general direction of the door.

"Stiles, if you don't come get your books out of my trunk, I'm donating them to the high school library," Lydia snaps back, voice muffled but still a highly effective verbal kick in the ass.

Stiles tumbles out of bed, lurches to his feet, and wrenches the door open. "You didn't have to deliver them in person."

Lydia gives him the once-over, eyebrow raised, before turning and heading for the stairs. "I had some business to take care of in Beacon Hills anyway."

"Well that doesn't sound ominous at all." Stiles throws on a jacket and some shoes and follows Lydia down to the parking lot.

The hatch of her Jeep is open, revealing the three plastic crates full of books crammed into the trunk.

Stiles says, "Wait, what kind of 'business' are we talking about, here?"

**α**

Allison's phone chirps as she's on her way to third period.

_Hey! I'm in town for a while. Want to meet for coffee?_

_-Lydia_

**Next: "Servants of Truth"**


	4. Servants of Truth

**Notes:** Beta by Dusty, whose soul I think I broke, and live heckling by Poicephalus (she was literally sitting across the table from me during my final editing pass).

**Chapter Four: "Servants of Truth"**

The crime scene isn't accessible by car. Harlowe and Daehler have to hike ten minutes into the bush before they reach the body.

"Oh no, not you two again," the officer groans as they arrive. "How did you even know to come here? I just reported in."

"I've been listening to the police scanner," Matt says. "Does Officer Steinhardt really have chlamydia?"

Harley interrupts with, "Don't answer that. Who's the victim?"

"Bennett Taylor." The officer holds up the victim's wallet. "Reported missing March 10th."

"That was days ago," Harley says. "This body's pristine."

The officer shrugs. "Don't know what to tell you, Agent. The ME gets here in half an hour."

"Thanks."

The officer grumbles and leaves the scene, heading back down the hill.

Matt kneels by the body. "You know, normally dead bodies are fucking awful, but this isn't bad."

Bennett Taylor lies on his back in the dirt, hands folded over his chest. He looks like he could just get up and walk away, if it weren't for the enormous knife wound across his throat.

"This isn't right," Harley says. "We're in the middle of the woods. If he's been here since the tenth, something should've come along and eaten him. Never mind the decomposition; he'd be in _pieces_, by now."

Matt cocks his head to the side as he regards the body. "So he got lost in the woods last week, and somebody slashed his throat this morning?"

"That sound likely to you?"

"Not really, but _look_ at this. Nothing came near him. No scavengers, no bugs." Matt stands, brushing dirt and leaves off his knees. "Think this is the work of our mystery critter?"

Harley finds her eyes drawn to the victim's slit throat. "I don't know. This is more in line with what happened to—with what happened at the hospital. But it's too clean compared to the Lahey murder, I mean, _he_ was basically mauled to death."

Matt falls silent; his head turns. Harley follows his line of sight: a beetle is crawling through the dirt, towards the body. About an inch from the corpse, the beetle hangs a sharp right and scurries away as fast as its little legs will take it.

"Huh," Matt says. He crouches by the body again and reaches for Taylor's folded hands.

"Don't disturb the body too much," Harley warns.

"Yes, ma'am." Matt pulls a pen from his pocket and nudges Taylor's fingers up and away from his chest. "I can see something under his hands." Using the pen, he edges it out until he can reach in with his other hand and pull the 'something' free.

It's a feather: black, symmetrical, _big_.

"There's a signal coming off this," Matt says. "I can feel it. What kind of bird is this from?"

"Agent Martin might know," Harley replies. "What do you mean, a 'signal'?"

"You know that 'This Place is Not a Place of Honour' warning they put on nuclear waste bunkers? It's a bit like that."

"But you're holding it."

"Whatever kind of spell or aura this is, it wasn't meant to affect humans." Matt stands, twirling the feather between his fingers. "This body was supposed to be found untouched. I think someone's sending a message."

"Yeah, but to who?" Harley turns, scanning the woods. Further down the hill, a ways off, sits a decrepit pile of charred wood that used to be a house.

Matt says, "That's the Hale house, right?"

"Yeah. According to Stiles' report, it's where Derek Hale lived for a while. Might still be there."

"So... wait. This guy _lived_ in the broken down piece of crap condemned house where his entire family burned to death?"

"... Yeah."

"And we're _sure_ he's not Catholic?"

**α**

Derek has made a huge mistake.

The waitress took off at high speed after bringing their drinks, and now Stiles is just sitting across from Derek, gulping down something called a "Shirley Templar"—seriously, who taught this man to drink out of a straw, it's ridiculous—and staring Derek down.

"You're still angry," Derek guesses.

"I'm going to take a page out of my dad's playbook here and say I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed."

"You sound mad."

"I am pretty pissed off, yeah."

"... Should I go?"

"No. We're going to sit here and you are going to practice not turning people into werewolves."

They lapse into an awkward silence. The waitress looks like she's about to head over to their table, then obviously rethinks that plan and turns on her heel, fleeing back to the safety of the bar.

Stiles takes another drink from the Shirley Templar and says, "Why now? You've been Alpha for weeks. Why start turning people all of a sudden?"

"Gerard declared war. He leads the hunters. And he won't stop until every werewolf in Beacon Hills is dead."

"So your plan is to give him more werewolves to kill?"

"No, I..." Derek rubs at his shoulder. It's getting hard to think. "I can't really explain it."

"Great," Stiles mutters to himself, leaning back in his chair and looking out the window. Another awkward silence falls over the two of them.

"I'm sorry," Derek finally says, because it seems appropriate and he wants Stiles to _look_ at him.

Stiles drums the fingers of one hand on the tabletop, turning back to meet Derek's eyes. "Just... I don't know. Start _telling_ me about this stuff, would you? I hate being in the dark."

"I will. I promise."

"Okay." Stiles leans forward again. "So I've been doing some research, trying to figure out what Harlowe and Daehler have been chasing."

Derek cocks an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look," Stiles says. "I have a hard time getting out of Work Mode, okay? I've been reliably informed it's one of my major character flaws."

"Find anything?"

"Not really, no. I don't suppose you have any clue what killed Isaac's dad?"

Derek shakes his head. "Is this really what we're going to do on our first date? Argue, and then talk shop?"

"Until I get more booze in me? Yes."

**α**

An hour later, Stiles' drink starts to take effect.

"So it turns out it's a squirrel. The Guardian of the Vault is a squirrel. And Greenberg, being a fucking idiot, goes up to it like he's going to pet the damn thing and it latches onto his face and starts chewing."

Derek says, "I don't think I have the security clearance for you to be telling me this."

"No, wait, you've got to hear the rest of it. We finally manage to get the squirrel off Greenberg's face, and it starts swearing at us in... fuck, I don't know, I think it was Old English or something. We're in an ancient Viking tomb, in fucking Wisconsin, and a squirrel is calling me an asshole in a dead Germanic language."

"My parents met in Wisconsin," Derek says, obviously trying to change the subject.

Stiles decides to let him. "Some kind of werewolf ice cream social?"

"Kind of. My mom was up there on business. My dad shot her. It was an accident."

Stiles says, "So he was a hunter?"

"Taxidermist." Derek lets out a low chuckle. "You know how you keep saying I don't know how to act like a normal person? He was even worse than I am."

"Sweet Jesus. I guess that's why your family was cool with him."

"I think my grandmother was just happy there was somebody in the pack who knew how to work an oven. My mom practically nuked the house every Thanksgiving, and Peter always liked to say that cooking your food all the way through was admitting weakness."

"Oh god, he sounds like my dad." Stiles twirls the straw in his empty glass for a second before adding, "So, I guess getting involved with puny humans runs in the family."

"'Puny'?" Derek smirks. "That remains to be seen."

Stiles scoffs. "If you think you can use your new Alpha Smirk to get me into the backseat of your car on the first date, you've got another thing coming."

**α**

"I still don't see how a trip to the morgue counts as 'Girls Night,'" Allison says, as Lydia leads them through the halls of the hospital.

"Come on, this has to be more interesting than dinner with your parents," Lydia replies. "Unless you were planning to meet Scott tonight...?"

Allison shushes her. Nobody's around, but it's hard to tell what might get back to her family. "Please be more careful when you talk about that."

"Of course; my mistake." Lydia pushes open the door to the morgue.

There are two bodies on the slabs: Isaac's dad, and Bennett. Allison's more desensitized than she used to be, but the damage done to Mr. Lahey's body still makes her a little queasy.

"Your parents have been training you, right?" Lydia says. "Well, I want to borrow that training."

Allison stays by the door, twisting her purse strap in one hand, while Lydia moves to stand between the two exam tables. "What do you mean?"

Lydia says, "I need to know if these two men were killed by the same person."

Allison takes a few halting steps toward the nearest slab, the one with Mr. Lahey on it. "I thought there'd be a smell."

"They've been in cold storage," Lydia replies, not taking her eyes off Allison.

Allison looks Mr. Lahey's body over. "This looks like a werewolf attack. Claw marks, but no bite marks except for the one on the neck."

"Why?"

Allison pauses, running over what her mother told her. She wouldn't let Allison take notes; the family likes to keep strict control over what written records exist. "Werewolves don't risk turning people they want dead. They won't bite unless they intend to make another werewolf, or that bite is the killing strike."

"So Lahey was killed by a werewolf?"

"That's what it looks like."

"What about Mr. Taylor, here?"

Allison tries not to look at Bennett's face, focusing instead on his slit throat. "That doesn't look like claws."

"Autopsy report suggests a knife of some kind." Lydia cocks her head to the side when she sees the confused look on Allison's face. "Werewolves don't use knives?"

"No," Allison says. "They don't have to, and they don't like to."

"So, Lahey's killer is a werewolf, but Taylor's killer isn't."

"I can't say for sure."

"That's fine, Allison. You've been very helpful."

"Can we actually go shopping now? I kind of want to spend the next few hours pretending I don't know what severed arteries look like."

**α**

Derek hears a sharp _bang_ at the same time Stiles utters a muffled "ow" into Derek's mouth. Probably hit his knee on the console again; the Camaro's backseat really wasn't designed for this. Derek huffs a quiet laugh and pulls Stiles further into his lap.

Eventually the restaurant staff's passive-aggressive attempts to get Stiles and Derek to leave so the restaurant could close became more aggressive than passive, and Stiles walked Derek back to his car.

Which led to Stiles pushing Derek against the side of the car, practically attacking his mouth.

Which led to... this.

Stiles is more or less completely wrapped around Derek now, almost no air between them. Derek breaks away from Stiles' lips to mouth at his neck. He hears a soft laugh above him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Stiles says, breathless. Derek likes that. A _lot_. "Just noticing a pattern, here."

Derek latches back onto Stiles' mouth so he'll shut up.

His neck is starting to cramp up. The Camaro's backseat _really_ wasn't designed for this.

Stiles' phone rings.

"Don't answer that," Derek pants, nipping at Stiles' lower lip. "Do _not_ answer that."

"Government employee," Stiles replies with an apologetic little smile, before sitting up and pulling his phone out of his pocket, answering the call. "Agent Stilinski."

Derek wishes Stiles hadn't used his Cop Voice while sitting in Derek's lap. This is going to cause problems later.

"_Stiles, it's Harley,_" says the voice on the other end of the line. "_Sorry for calling so late. I need a favor._"

"I'm listening."

"_So the LEOs found some human hairs on Lahey's body and, uh, 'forgot' to tell us. They sent a sample off for DNA testing._"

"Wait, can you even _get_ DNA off shed hairs?"

"_According to the report, they weren't shed. They were ripped out. Lahey fought back. Anyway, as soon as I found out I called in and got us bumped up the queue. We're expecting the results back in about a day._"

Stiles says, "What part of that is the favor?"

"_Well, if you could get me a DNA sample from Isaac Lahey, we could compare it to the lab results and rule him out as a suspect._"

"I'll see what I can do."

"_Appreciate it._"

Stiles ends the call. "I assume you heard all that?"

"Yeah."

"So, what do you think?"

On the one hand, every one of Derek's instincts is telling him this is some kind of trap. On the other, if it could exonerate Isaac...

"Come by the old train depot tomorrow morning. I'll make sure Isaac's there."

"Yeah, okay." Stiles shuffles back a bit. "I should, uh... I should probably go. Especially if I'm running around tomorrow morning."

**α**

Allison has been called to the office at Beacon Hills High exactly twice in her life: the first time was the day she transferred in, and the second was the day the school reopened after the janitor was killed.

When the call comes in halfway through Chem class, Allison barely manages to contain her panic.

The receptionist waves her in the direction of the principal's office. The door is slightly ajar; Allison knocks and pokes her head in.

Gerard looks up from his computer. "Allison! Come on in."

Allison edges into the office. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, sit down."

Allison perches on the edge of a chair.

Gerard turns his full attention to her. "You've been spending quite a lot of time with a Miss Martin, lately."

"What?"

"Lydia Martin. Your parents tell me she works for the FBI."

"FDSI," Allison says faintly. "She's a friend."

"A friend who is also a federal agent?"

"She's actually really young." Allison shrugs. "We go shopping and talk about boys. You know. Girl stuff. I don't have many friends at school, so..."

"Hmm." Gerard folds his hands atop the desk. "I assume you know to exercise discretion when talking to her about your family."

"I do." It's not technically a lie, either. Allison _knows_ she should be careful when talking to Lydia, she just... hasn't been. Telling Lydia about her family is a special kind of cathartic. It's hard to pin down exactly _why_.

"Well, that's good to hear." There's something cold and brittle in Gerard's tone, despite the smile. "I'll let you get back to class now."

Allison turns to leave.

"Oh, Allison? One more thing. Do you know why Miss Martin's decided to visit Beacon Hills?"

"Not really, no."

Again, not a lie.

**α**

His pack is—understandably—a little cranky about being called in on a Saturday morning.

Isaac's immediate reaction to what Derek tells them is, "Isn't this what you warned us about?"

"They're not hunters," Derek says. "They're government, near as I can tell."

From his spot on the stairs, Boyd says, "Do you trust them?"

"They're a safer bet than the Argents."

"That's not what I asked."

Isaac says, "I still don't see why I have to do this."

"Because I told you to," Derek snaps.

Above them, the door creaks open. "Hello?"

"Down here, Stiles." Derek shoots his pack a warning look.

Stiles gingerly makes his way down the stairs, sidestepping Boyd as he goes. He looks around the depot and says, "Jesus Christ, you've been _living_ here, haven't you?"

"It's safe," Derek replies.

"Yeah, if you're immune to tetanus." Stiles thinks for a second. "Wait, are werewolves immune to—?"

"Yes."

"Good to know. By the way, someone wrote 'Fuck the 5-0' on your front door."

All eyes turn to Erica.

"Why are you all looking at me?"

Boyd says, "Because we _know_ you."

"You have excellent penmanship," Stiles adds. He starts digging around in his shoulder bag. "Okay, this shouldn't take long."

Isaac unfolds from his spot on the floor. "You taking blood?" His voice shakes, although it's too subtle for anyone but Derek to notice.

"It's a cheek swab," Stiles says, pulling the swab kit out of his bag. "I just have to stick a Q-tip in your mouth. You might gag, but that's about the worst of it. Scott's doing one, too."

Isaac's brows furrow. "Why?"

"Process of elimination. If we can rule out all the known werewolves that existed in Beacon Hills when your dad was killed, then Harlowe and Daehler can double down on finding the real killer."

"So Derek's doing this, too?"

"They already have my DNA on file." Derek is still a little bitter. "It's a long story."

"I kind of arrested him that one time," Stiles says, like he doesn't know whether to laugh or apologize. "You and Scott will be staying off the books, though. Field Psychic Daehler—"

Erica giggles and says, "'Field Psychic'?"

"It's his real title. Daehler's doing the DNA profiling himself. You're minors. And werewolves. It would be awkward."

Isaac relaxes a little. "Okay. What do I need to do?"

Stiles uncaps the swab kit. "Say 'ah.' And no biting."

**α**

Afterwards, Stiles takes Derek aside. "Can I talk to you in private?"

Derek looks over Stiles' shoulder and says, "Boyd, Erica. Go home."

The two of them immediately head up the stairs.

Isaac says, "I guess I'll just go... sit in my train car."

"I'll know if you're listening," Derek warns as Isaac walks away.

Stiles tries to suppress a grin. "Will you really?"

"Doesn't hurt if _he_ thinks so."

"Oh my god, my mom used to pull the same eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head crap." Something passes over Stiles' expression, but it's gone before Derek can figure it out.

"Are you okay?"

"No, no, it's cool. I have friends who've dated single dads. This is totally workable." Stiles tucks the swab kit back into his bag. "We need to talk about this place, though. Isaac can't live here. I mean, _you_ can't live here, but Isaac _especially_ can't live here."

Derek nods toward the bag. "He won't have to much longer, if _that_ works."

"And what about you?" Stiles steps in, puts his hand on Derek's arm. It's still a novelty, having someone touch him skin-to-skin without violent intent behind it. "You can come to me if you need somewhere to stay, or... anything, really. You don't have to do this alone."

Derek wants to believe that. But he can't afford to.

"Okay, I've got a delivery to make," Stiles says, stepping back. "I'll call you as soon as Isaac's cleared."

**α**

Matt's surveillance van currently serves as an impromptu science lab, parked behind the police station. Harley climbs into the back, holding a parcel aloft and waving it. "Guess what I just swiped from the mail room."

Matt pokes his head out of the mess of equipment that constitutes his workspace and says, "Are those the DNA test results?"

"No, I stole someone's Amazon order and immediately ran here to show you."

"Your sarcasm is unnecessary and unwelcome, Agent Harlowe." Matt returns to his work. "I'm done with Lahey's profile. Scott McCall's is gonna take another hour, maybe."

Harley yanks the pull-tab on the envelope and removes its contents, scanning the report. "Wait, hang on. This says the hairs were already a match to one of the samples in the database."

"Whose?"

Harley turns a few pages. "... Oh, shit."

**α**

Deaton is doing paperwork at the front desk when Stiles arrives at the animal clinic. "What can I do for you, Agent Stilinski? Scott has the night off."

"You don't have a secretary or anything?"

"It's not enough work that I can't do it myself. And that can't be all you came here to ask."

"Just making conversation." Stiles leans on the desk. "In your professional opinion, doctor, how many werewolves would you say have been in Beacon County over the last few weeks?"

Deaton doesn't look up from his work. "Derek's pack plus Scott. So, five."

"That's it? Nobody else?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Deaton glances up. "I take it that wasn't the answer you were looking for."

"Just thought I might be able to catch a break, for once. Anyway, does the name 'Gerard' mean anything to you?"

"Gerard Argent?"

Stiles' eyebrows fly up. "_Argent?_ Shit."

"He paid me a visit the other day," Deaton says. "A rather unfriendly one, so you can stop looking at me like that."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Well, if I felt like being charitable, I'd call him 'unusually driven.' He's a zealot, essentially. Everything his daughter learned, she learned from him."

"Daughter?"

"Kate Argent."

Oh, this just keeps getting better and better. "Derek says Gerard's on the warpath."

Deaton puts his pen down and steeples his fingers in front of his face, mulling it over. "He did seem even more obsessed than usual. Kate's death hit him hard, I think."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "When that becomes a valid justification for murder, I'll let you know."

"Careful, Agent Stilinski. Gerard is the most experienced hunter alive today. Don't underestimate him."

Stiles' phone rings. "Can you give me a second?" He picks up the call and turns away from the desk. "Harley, hey. Any results back from the—"

Harley says, "_It's Derek._"

"What?"

"_The hairs found on Lahey's body were a match to Derek's DNA profile. Derek's our killer._"

Everything stops.

"_Stiles, you still there?_"

"Yeah," Stiles croaks, the words sticking in his throat. "I'll call you back."

**α**

"You _absolute fucker!_"

Stiles' yell echoes through the train depot as he storms down the stairs, interrupting the entire pack in the middle of combat training.

Derek lets Isaac up from where he'd been pinned to the floor. "Stiles? What's wrong?"

"What's _wrong?_ You _lied_ to me, you son of a bitch!"

Boyd looks at Stiles, then Derek, then Stiles again. "They got a match from the hairs on Mr. Lahey's body?"

"Yeah, they got a match." Stiles rounds on Derek. "To _you_. You killed Isaac's dad."

Isaac goes white. He backs away from Derek. "_What?_"

"I didn't," Derek protests, rubbing his shoulder.

"Stop lying to me!" Stiles barks. "I thought I could trust you! I thought we had this figured out! But no, like always, Derek Hale does whatever the _fuck_ he wants, and leaves the rest of us to clean up the mess!"

Derek can't think, can barely breathe. A thought winds its way into his head, insidious, _alien_:

_He's a threat. Kill him_.

**α**

When Derek snarls and lunges at Stiles, knocking him to the floor, Stiles reacts entirely on instinct.

He punches Derek in the nose.

Derek yelps and scrambles away, his back hitting a pillar.

Stiles staggers to his feet, taking a few steps back. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Derek's head is buried in his hands, nails elongated. He's shaking. "Stiles," he gasps, "run."

"What—"

"_Run!_" he roars, and charges at Stiles again.

Isaac slams into Derek's midsection, knocking him against the pillar. Derek shoves him back; Isaac's feet skid against the floor, but he keeps pushing. The pillar shudders and cracks as Erica throws herself against Derek as well, keeping him pinned.

Stiles gapes. "Oh god, what is _that?_"

Something is moving under skin of Derek's shoulder.

Something alive.

Derek thrashes, trying to escape. "_Get it out!_"

Stiles starts forward, but Boyd beats him to it, claws slicing Derek's shoulder open, fingers digging in, chasing the... _thing_ writhing inside his body.

Boyd grits out, "Got it!"

It doesn't come easy. The barbules catch and pull on the meat of the arch between Derek' neck and shoulder. Slowly, in fits and starts, Boyd extracts a huge, black, blood-soaked feather from the incision. His last tug flicks a spray of gore into the air.

Derek collapses back against the pillar. "She's gone," he pants, "she's gone," and slips into unconsciousness.

**Next: "Echo in the Blood"**


	5. Echo in the Blood

**Notes:** I would like to organize an interfaith prayer circle for Dusty the beta, who has actually started watching _Teen Wolf_. May God have mercy on her soul. Poicephalus would like you all to know that she could totally get Derek to punch her.

* * *

**Chapter Five: "Echo in the Blood"**

The house isn't burnt. It's as it was, before the fire. Whole.

Derek's hand hovers a few inches from the front door. This has to be a dream. It could turn into a nightmare in an instant. But if he doesn't do anything, he can stay here, where the fire never happened.

After what seems like an eternity standing on the deck he built with his father, Derek puts two fingers on the door and gently pushes it open.

The house is empty. Not just of empty of people, but empty of _everything_, the white walls and hardwood floors made even more austere by the absence of people, furniture, _life_.

"Hello, Derek."

The woman from his dream, the one who brought him to his knees and clawed his shoulder open, stands at the top of the stairs.

She says, "We need to talk."

**α**

"You _don't know?_" Stiles is trying very hard not to shriek, because it would compromise his dignity as an officer of the law. "How can you _not know_ what's wrong with him? You're a doctor! This is your job!"

"We've run the tests," the doctor says, unfazed. Evidently he's used to people losing their shit in front of him. "There's no medical reason for Mr. Hale to be in this state."

Stiles looks over at the hospital bed. Derek is cuffed to the frame. Standard procedure for someone who attacked a federal agent. Matt sits in the chair next to the bed, fiddling with the two evidence bags in his lap: the feather that was pulled out of Derek's shoulder, and the feather found on Bennett Taylor's body.

Boyd and Erica stand on either side of the door, almost at attention.

Every once in a while, Derek's eyes move under his eyelids. He's dreaming.

"Can't you wake him up? I don't know, pump him full of stimulants or something?"

Infuriatingly patient, the doctor says, "I wouldn't recommend doing that, Agent Stilinski. It would be safest to just wait for him to wake up on his own."

The doctor leaves, and Stiles catches a glimpse of Isaac in the hall before the door swings shut. Isaac hasn't come near Derek since they arrived at the hospital.

Matt says, "Wow, I bet when you imagined cuffing Hale to a bed, it wasn't anything like this."

"Shut up, Matt." Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets. "How come _you're_ here and not Harley?"

"Harley's working on something else right now."

The door swings open again. Erica and Boyd bristle, but Lydia doesn't even notice them. "Stiles?"

"I'm okay," Stiles says.

"What happened?"

Matt says, "Hale went crazy and tried to kill Stiles."

Stiles glares at him. "Matt, stop helping." To Lydia, he says, "Things got weird. We're not entirely sure what happened, but Boyd pulled _that_," he points at the bloody feather, "out of Derek."

Lydia gestures at the two evidence bags. "Give." Matt hands them over, and Lydia holds them up, comparing the two feathers. "Tail feathers. If I had to guess, I'd say they're both from a common raven. It's hard to tell under all the blood."

"They're talismans of some kind," Matt says. "But they aren't programmed to do the same thing. The feather we found on Bennett Taylor is a transmitter. The feather that was in Hale is primarily a receiver."

Lydia tosses the evidence bags back into Matt's lap. "Mind control?"

"Maybe," Stiles says.

Matt adds, "Which is good, right?"

"For a very specific definition of 'good,' sure."

**α**

The woman starts down the stairs; Derek meets her halfway, snarling.

"Whatever you did to me," Derek says, "you're going to undo it, or I'll rip your head off. And if it doesn't take, I'll do it again when I wake up."

"You are mistaken." The woman has an accent of some kind, one Derek can't identify. Middle Eastern, maybe. She holds her hands up, palms out. "I'm not your enemy."

"Really?" Derek bares his teeth. "You shoved a feather under my skin. Crawled inside my head. What part of that is supposed to be friendly?"

"You think that was me?"

"You're saying it wasn't?"

Almost faster than Derek can see, the woman reaches out and taps him between the eyes with her forefinger.

_He's lying on his back, a tremendous, invisible weight holding him down. She sits on his chest, one hand holding the feather, the other gripping the knife that slices open his shoulder, peeling back the skin._

_A woman with bone-white skin and bright black eyes._

Derek gasps and takes a few steps back.

"_That_ is who did this to you," the woman says. "She drove you to expand your pack. She made you kill, then made you forget."

"Who are you?"

"Asena Sadik."

Before the fire, the Hale family tree was painted on the wall of the nursery. At the root of the tree were two names; one of them was Asena Sadik.

"But you're dead," Derek says. "You've been dead for almost a hundred years."

"You carry the memories of the Alphas who came before you." Asena continues down the stairs, until both she and Derek stand at the foot of them. "You've relived some of these memories already. That's all I am. A memory."

"And you're here now, because...?"

"Because you need my help."

**α**

The door to her dad's study is open, but Allison knocks anyway. "Dad? Can I talk to you?"

Her dad has a map spread out on the desk, several locations marked with red crosses. "What is it?" he says, rolling up the map.

"Just... I thought Gerard was going home after the funeral," Allison says. "How long is he—"

Gerard breezes into the office. "Excuse me, sweetheart, but I need to speak with your dad."

Allison can see her dad tense up. He says, "Can it wait?"

With small movements, so neither her dad nor Gerard notice, Allison pulls her phone from her pocket and starts to dial.

Gerard says, "No, Chris, it can't wait. We have an unexpected opportunity."

The house phone starts to ring. "It's okay," Allison says, leaving her cell on the table behind her. "I'll get that."

Allison nearly runs to the kitchen and grabs the handset off the counter. The phone she left in the study isn't on speaker, so she has to strain to hear, but most of what her dad and Gerard are saying comes through.

"—the hospital feeds," Gerard says. "Derek Hale was just checked into Beacon Hills memorial."

Dad says, "What's wrong with him?"

"Does it matter? Hale's vulnerable. Once the Alpha is dead, the pack will scatter and we can pick them off one at a time."

"And what if Hale isn't hurt? What if he's at full strength?"

"Then he's still out in the open. We'll take him down."

Dad's voice gets low, dangerous. "If we're risking the lives of my men, I want you to be honest with me. What are you hoping to accomplish with this?"

There's a pause. For a second, Allison is worried they found her phone, but then Gerard says, "For the longest time, when I thought about what I'd leave behind me, I _knew_ the best thing I could give the world was you and your sister."

"And?"

"And then I had to bury my daughter. Call your men. We move tonight."

Allison hangs up and dashes to her room, grabbing her bag and climbing out the window.

**α**

The dream-scape shifted while Derek wasn't paying attention; they're no longer in the house, but in some kind of underground complex Derek has never seen before. The walls are rough stone, but the pillars and walkways are elegantly carved, polished wood.

Asena has her back to him, looking up at a suit of armor on a stand; the breastplate is adorned with a wolf's head in relief.

Derek says, "What makes you think I need help?"

"The fact that you were so easily manipulated by your enemy. Among other things."

"The hunters haven't—"

"_Not_ the hunters," Asena snaps, turning to face him. "Your _true_ enemy is an immediate threat. The hunters are a constant. They are immaterial."

Derek's hackles start to rise. "They killed my family."

"They've killed thousands of families. It's what they exist for. The tide rises, the tide falls, and the hunters murder us in our beds. What happened to you is not unique, nor is it important."

"_Not important_?" Derek's teeth and claws start to lengthen. "Innocent people died. _Children_ died."

"And it's your fault they are dead."

Asena easily evades Derek's first swing, sidestepping out of the way. Derek rounds on her, fangs bared.

"Control yourself!" Asena barks.

"No." None of this is real. Asena's not even a real person; she's Derek's own mind, finding new and interesting ways to torture him. Derek can let loose and, for once, there won't be any consequences.

He slams his shoulder into her gut; she rolls with the energy of the strike and flips him onto his back, landing with one knee planted in the middle of his chest. Derek throws her off and into the nearest wall, leaving cracks in the stone.

Asena stands slowly, shaking off the impact. "Are you done?"

"Almost," Derek says, and goes in for a haymaker, claws extended.

She deflects the blow with her elbow and, with her other arm, delivers an open-handed strike to Derek's throat. Derek chokes and staggers.

"You are powerful," Asena concedes, "but strength is no substitute for skill."

Then she brings the heel of her hand up and breaks Derek's nose.

**α**

Scott bursts into the hospital room, Allison not far behind him. "Stiles?"

"I'm fine," Stiles says. "We're more worried about Derek."

Scott frowns. "He attacked you."

"There may have been extenuating circumstances," Lydia says.

Allison pushes forward. "Lydia, my family knows Derek's here. They're on their way right now."

Boyd and Erica both go ashen. Stiles says, "Oh, shit."

"We need to get him out of here," Boyd says. Erica nods frantically.

"You are _not_ taking him back to that train depot," Stiles snaps. "Not when he's like this."

Erica says, "Where else can we take him? My mom's gonna notice if I try and sneak Derek into my room."

Stiles exhales loudly and grinds his palms into his temples. "Shit, I don't know. The motel, maybe?"

"Not exactly secure," Lydia says.

Matt checks his phone and says, "Uh, guys? As of two minutes ago, we have a safehouse we can use."

**α**

Derek sits under the suit of armor and pushes the cartilage of his nose back into place.

"Anger is an imprecise weapon," Asena says. "It can be useful, but run solely on rage for too long and you are more likely to destroy yourself than your enemies."

Derek rolls his eyes and winces when the motion jars his healing nose. "Is this where you tell me revenge isn't the way, and I need to forgive and move on?"

Asena grins. "That would make me a hypocrite, I think." She crouches in front of Derek. "I know what it's like. The hate, the grief. Rage becomes the only thing that drives you, the only thing keeping you alive, and sometimes you wish you had died with them, so you would be spared the agony of being the last." She looks up at the suit of armor. "This was my father's armor."

"He was your Alpha?"

"Yes." Asena shifts so that she's sitting next to Derek. "An Alpha is more than just a general who barks orders. To your pack, you must be father, brother, teacher, friend. And their strengths must compensate for your weaknesses. An Alpha without a pack is strong. An Alpha _with_ a pack is stronger. An Alpha with the _right_ pack is invincible."

The sound of claws scraping against wood echoes through the chamber. Derek shoots to his feet and turns; a pair of red eyes flash briefly in the dark before disappearing.

"Is that—?"

"The tyrant," Asena says. "The monster. He follows you, as he followed the rest of us, all our lives. Waiting for us to become him." She stands, clapping Derek on the shoulder. "There's more you should know. Come with me."

**α**

They've appropriated one of the rolling gurneys and are loading Derek onto it when Melissa McCall appears in the doorway and yells, "What the _hell_ are you doing?" causing Erica to swear and almost drop Derek on his head.

Stiles says, "Police business," hoping it'll work.

It doesn't. "Wave your badge around all you want, you are _not_ moving an unconscious patient out of this hospital." Melissa looks around the room. "And what are all these kids doing in here? Scott?"

Scott says, "Mom, it's okay."

"No, it's _not_ okay. What's going on? Are you involved in something?"

"Understatement," Erica mutters. Boyd shushes her.

Scott takes Melissa by the elbow and leads her into the hall. They start talking in hushed tones, Melissa getting more and more animated. She looks like she's on the verge of tears.

Erica steps up next to Stiles. "Want to know what they're saying?"

"No."

Melissa storms back into the room, Scott trailing behind. "Derek's in danger?"

"Yeah," Stiles says.

Melissa nods. "Get him out of here. If anyone comes looking for him, I'll stall them as long as I can."

**α**

Asena leads him through the tunnels and walkways until they reach a huge, nearly empty room. The floors are rough wood, gouged by claws. Some of the marks are fresh; others look much, much older.

Turning to face him, Asena says, "Shift."

"What?"

"You've been fighting as a Beta your entire life. Fighting as an Alpha is not the same. Now, shift."

Derek shrugs out of his clothes and lets the change come over him. It doesn't hurt this time. Maybe because it's not really happening.

Asena drops into a widened stance, rolling her shoulders. "Good. Now attack me."

Derek takes a hesitant step forward, ears flicking back in confusion.

"Do you wish to be provoked again? I'm sure I can think of some uncharitable things to say about your mother."

Derek lunges, and Asena dodges out of the way, scraping blunt nails across his cheek as she goes. If her claws had been extended, she would have flayed his face open. He turns and pounces again, and this time she drops to the floor beneath him, pressing her nails into his belly before rolling away.

"A fully-shifted Alpha is bound by his size," Asena says. "He is easily outmaneuvered by a smaller, nimbler opponent. You can rip apart any creature you can catch, but first you must catch them." She brushes off her knees and takes her readied stance. "Again."

Derek snaps his jaws at her, not really aiming to hit. When she dodges, he snaps again, driving her back.

The sixth time she dances away from his teeth, her heel hits the base of the wall. Derek's backed her into a corner. Derek darts forward, pinning her to the wall with one huge forepaw.

Asena laughs. "Very good," she says, and pokes him in the eye.

Derek retreats, shaking his head to clear his vision.

"Your greatest asset is your strength, but your enemy does not employ force as a tactic. She disregards strength." Asena steps away from the wall, out into the open. "You must move against her the same way she moves against you. And you need allies as cunning as she is."

Derek cocks his head to the side, a questioning whine in his throat.

"Yes, I mean Stilinski," Asena says. "I can count on one hand the number of humans willing to stand between a wolf and a hunter. Those alliances should be treasured." She pauses, then adds, "You should tell him about the Argent girl."

Derek stalks away. He and Asena circle each other.

"What's stopping you? Guilt? Or fear? You think he'll abandon you if he knows the truth? The same way you feared your sister would?"

Derek snarls, claws gouging the floor as he paces.

"If your guilt ran as deep as you like to pretend it does, you wouldn't care who knew. The disgust of those you love would be just punishment for what you did."

Derek charges, snapping at Asena's throat, knocking her to the floor. She brings her nails up under his jaw; if she extends her claws, they'll go straight into his windpipe.

"You should tell him. And perhaps work on your temper."

**α**

The hunters break in through the loading docks and spread out through the ward, converging on 144: the room assigned to Derek Hale.

Two men flank the door, and when Gerard Argent gives the signal, a third kicks it open.

The room is empty.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

The hunters quickly hide their weapons as Melissa comes down the hall, wearing a helpful, empty smile.

"If you're looking for Mr. Hale," she says, "I'm afraid he's already checked out."

**α**

"This doesn't really look like proper transport for an unconscious patient," Matt says, as Erica and Boyd lift Derek into the back of Stiles' car. Scott and Allison have already left; either they went home or they're off doing their Forbidden Lovers thing.

"It's fine, we've done it before," Lydia says.

Stiles adds, "Yeah, just do up the middle seat belt and, uh, don't make any sudden stops."

Boyd steps back and eyes the car. "We aren't all going to fit inside this thing."

"I'll drive you home," Lydia says.

Stiles slams the door shut, then winces and looks back in the direction of the hospital. Nobody seems to have noticed the noise. "When Derek's safe, we'll let you know where he is."

Erica says, "Promise?"

Matt climbs into the driver's seat. "Daddy's gonna be fine, kids. Run along."

Lydia leads Erica and Boyd to her car as Stiles says, "Matt, you're kind of a dick. Did you know that?"

"I think my implants are acting up."

Isaac hasn't left. "I don't really have anywhere to go," he says. "I mean, I could head back to the train depot, but..."

Stiles sighs. "Get in the passenger seat. I'll ride in the back."

It'll be like college all over again. Complete with the guy passed out in the back seat.

**α**

Derek relaxes; the fur recedes and his bones pop back into place.

"I've taught you everything I can," Asena says as Derek dresses. "The rest comes with practice."

"This enemy of mine," Derek says. "What is she?"

"Something very old. Something that should be long dead."

She's about to say more, but a low growl rumbles through the training room. Two red eyes glow in the darkness of the hall.

Asena steps between Derek and the monster. "Run."

"Like hell."

"This is an opponent you cannot defeat. _Run_."

Derek moves to stand by her side. "It's just base instinct. An animal."

Asena's laugh is bitter, harsh. "You think this is the animal? _Look at it_. Look at what it represents. Greed, hate, obsession. These are not the traits of a beast. They are the traits of a man."

She turns, shoving him away, and behind her the monster breaks cover, bearing down on them both, moving too quickly to see properly, an unstoppable force of teeth and fur and rancid breath.

"Now, _run!_"

**α**

Derek wakes up.

* * *

**Next: "The Raven's Eye"**


	6. The Raven's Eye

**Notes:** Dusty and Poicephalus talked me into writing smut. "It'll be an opportunity for characterization," they said. Clearly they know all of my weaknesses and must be destroyed.

* * *

**Chapter Six: "The Raven's Eye"**

It's dark by the time Jackson hits the showers. He's been staying late every day after school, training. He has to compete with McCall, after all.

McCall the co-captain. McCall the werewolf. McCall, who won't _share_.

"Hello, Jackson," comes a voice from the darkness, as he's wrapping a towel around his waist.

Jackson swears and collides painfully with a locker. "What the hell, lady?"

The woman is small, thin, wearing ill-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.

"I remember some of my sisters used to sit on the cliffs near treacherous waters, and sing," she says. "Their songs were so beautiful, sailors would wreck their ships on the rocks as they attempted to reach the cliffs. That's what it sounds like, to me."

Jackson swallows, still backed against the lockers. "What are you talking about?"

"Your desire." The woman steps closer. "You_ want_, Jackson. More deeply and more fiercely than any mortal I've ever met."

Enough of this shit. Jackson draws his shoulders back, using his height and his size to his advantage. "Lady, I don't know what kind of weird cougar bullshit you're pulling here, but—"

"I know what you want." The woman tilts her head up so Jackson can see her eyes. They're black, from edge to edge, shining with devious intelligence. "And I can get it for you."

Jackson's heart hammers in his chest. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he gets the words out: "And what do _you_ want?"

The woman smiles, with teeth that seem too sharp. "Only your help, for a little while." She leans in close, her voice low, conspiratorial. "Swear fealty to me, Jackson Whittemore, and I'll grant you your heart's desire."

**α**

Derek wakes up.

He doesn't recognize the room. It's small and doesn't look particularly lived-in; from the bed, all Derek can see out the window is some trees.

Stiles is asleep in a chair, feet propped up next to Derek.

When Derek tries to sit up, he's stopped short. There are straps across his chest, legs, and wrists, binding him to the bed.

"Stiles," Derek says, voice hoarse. Stiles murmurs and shifts a little in the chair, but doesn't wake.

Derek clears his throat and tries again. "_Stiles!_"

"Holy fuck!" Stiles yelps as he jerks awake. The chair tips precariously, then settles back into position. Stiles blinks a few times, then turns his bleary gaze to the bed. "Derek, hey. Uh... how are you feeling?"

He looks... wary. Not afraid, but cautious.

Derek settles his head back against the pillows. For the first time in weeks, his mind feels clear. Focused. Like the air after a thunderstorm.

"I'm okay," he says. "I think."

Stiles gets out of the chair and approaches, settling one knee on the bed. "You sure? No weird murderous impulses?"

"Stiles." Derek shuts his eyes, trying not to remember how it felt, wanting to rip out Stiles' throat. "It wasn't me. There was something—_it wasn't me._"

"Okay," Stiles says. "I believe you."

Derek's eyes snap open.

"Not _just_ because you say so." Stiles sits on the edge of the bed. "We've got some evidence to back it up. You're good now, though?"

"Yeah."

"Are you lying 'cause you're still mind-controlled?"

"No."

"Right, that's good enough for me."

Derek shakes his head in disbelief as Stiles undoes the strap around Derek's right wrist. "How long was I out?"

"A day and a bit," Stiles says, as Derek reaches up to unstrap his chest. "It's Monday morning. You spent most of Sunday in the hospital, then we moved you here and had Deaton look you over. He told us the same thing the doctors did."

"Which was?"

"That we should wait for you to wake up."

Derek doesn't like the faraway look in Stiles' eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just... seeing you lying there, and not being able to do anything..." he bites his lip and shrugs. "Whatever, it's nothing. You're okay now."

Derek's left wrist is still strapped to the bed, but he reaches up and pulls Stiles down by the back of his neck anyway, pressing their mouths together.

One of Stiles' hands fists in the front of Derek's shirt, while the other grabs his shoulder—a little too tight, but Derek doesn't mind—and Stiles kisses like he's afraid Derek is going to disappear.

There's a polite cough from the hall.

Stiles pulls away, panting slightly. Isaac is standing in the doorway, wearing the same expression Derek imagines he himself wore whenever he caught Laura making out with one of her boyfriends.

"Uh, Agent Martin wants me to tell you breakfast is almost ready," Isaac says, and flees.

**α**

Stiles leads Derek downstairs to the kitchen, where Lydia is making scrambled eggs.

"Hello, Mr. Hale," Lydia says. "Welcome to Field Station Artemis."

Derek glances out the kitchen window. "Your field station has a swimming pool."

Stiles coughs. "Yeah, we'll be making some modifications. This used to be somebody's vacation home. Bank foreclosed on it, and the department bought it for a song."

A woman Derek doesn't recognize walks into the kitchen, covered in drywall dust, and tries to steal a piece of bacon from one of the plates laid out on the counter. Lydia slaps her hand away.

Stiles says, "Derek, this is Special Agent Rebecca Harlowe. She's the one who put the proposal in for the new field station."

Derek leans on the kitchen island, next to where Isaac is sitting, then slides a little further away when he notices how tense Isaac is. "And it got approved?"

Harlowe says, "Well, what with the rapidly expanding werewolf pack, the army of genocidal domestic terrorists, and the possible Bleed incursion, the Directorate figured it was a sound investment."

Lydia turns the burner off, scrapes some of the eggs onto a plate, and drops said plate onto the counter in front of Derek. Possibly sensing his trepidation, she says, "Oh, please. I didn't put wolfsbane in them. That's the next batch."

"She's kidding," Stiles adds hastily. "I think."

**α**

Field Station Artemis is what its former owners probably called "our little cabin out in the country," but what everybody else would describe as "a fucking mansion made of logs." Three bedrooms upstairs, two more on the ground floor, plus a rec room ("It's going to be a conference room once we get the pool table out of there."), living room, kitchen, and study.

"Harley's finishing the basement," Stiles says as he shows Derek around. "Her uncle's a contractor."

"What's she finishing it _for?_"

"Something she planned out with Lydia, which probably means I don't want to know." Stiles pushes open the door to the study. There's what can only be described as a mountain of tech piled against the far wall, with a pair of legs sticking out from under it. And muttering.

"This is Matt Daehler," Stiles says. "Or, most of him. He talks to machines."

"Do they talk back?"

Daehler says, "You all think you're so fucking funny, don't you?" and crawls out from under the desk. "Hale's not gonna eat me, is he?"

"Only if you're especially annoying," Stiles says.

There's a whiteboard on the wall to the left. Written across the top are the words, 'WHAT WE KNOW,' and below it:

_-possible Bleed incursion_

_-uses feathers_

_ -TALISMANS: receiver/transmitter_

_-Taylor - symbolic killing?_

_-Lahey - THREAT TO THE PACK_

_-Hale - mind control_

_-__knives_

"Yeah, we know it's not much," Stiles says. He kicks at a plastic bin below the whiteboard, one of three, filled with books. "I've been reading up on every critter I can, but without anything to narrow down the search, well... let's just say I have made some very long lists."

"Black eyes," Derek murmurs, looking up at the whiteboard.

"What?"

"While I was out, I saw her. The thing that put the feather in me. Her eyes were black."

Stiles picks up a marker and starts writing notes on the board. "Anything else?"

"She looked human. And she wanted me to expand my pack." Derek shrugs. "That's all I have. Sorry."

"Well, it's more than we had a minute ago," Stiles says, capping the marker.

**α**

The school is teeming with surveillance cameras, by order of the new Principal Argent. There's a hole in the net, though: none of the cameras are pointed at the roof.

Allison leaves a note in the dead drop and heads up to the roof to wait. Minutes later, Scott scrambles up over the wall.

"Are you okay?" he says. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine, I just... I really need someone to talk to." Allison takes a few deep breaths. "My mom spent this morning talking about 'intelligence leaks' and 'suspected traitors' and I have no idea if they know about us, and if they do then they're _toying_ with me, and—"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Scott says, pulling her into a hug.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Allison mumbles into Scott's hoodie. "I was supposed to go to journalism school and travel the world and be the CNN foreign correspondent in Paris."

"You can still do that."

Allison sighs. "No, I can't."

They're quiet for a few minutes, holding each other, before Allison pulls away, rubbing at her eyes. "Sorry. I just needed to get that out, I guess."

Scott smiles. "Hey, that's what boyfriends are for."

"You're okay, though, right? My family haven't been giving you any trouble?"

Scott looks pained for a second, but he says, "Not really. I've been keeping my head down." After a moment, he adds, "Erica told me there's a pack meeting tonight."

"Are you gonna go?"

"Why should I? I'm not part of Derek's pack."

"You'd be safer with them, you know."

"Maybe." Scott shoves his hands into his pockets. "But if I'm with Derek, he'll want me to put the pack first. And I can't do that. I need to keep my mom safe. I need to keep _you_ safe."

"I can take care of myself, you know."

Scott grins. "I know. That's why I love you."

**α**

Erica and Boyd arrive about half an hour after school lets out. Derek leads them and Isaac into the rec room, where Stiles—back in his work suit—is waiting for them.

Stiles looks over Derek's shoulder as they enter the room and, when he doesn't see anyone else coming in, says, "Should we wait for Scott?"

Boyd and Erica trade a quick, commiserative look. "We don't think he's coming," Boyd says.

Stiles sighs and, a little too abruptly, drops a file onto the pool table. "Fine. Let's get everyone up to speed. As of this afternoon, I'm the FDSI's official liaison to the Beacon Hills pack for the duration of this case."

Three pairs of confused teenage eyes turn to Derek. He has no idea what to say, so he just nods.

Stiles flips the file open. "There was an incident in Aeolia a couple weeks ago. Two FDSI field agents were killed, and the suspect was tracked to Beacon Hills."

"Tracked how?" Boyd says.

"The suspect's irradiated. Not enough to be a health risk, but it's a unique type of radiation that our satellites can detect. We're using the data from those satellites to track her movements."

Boyd blinks. "You've got satellites."

"Yeah. Well, not me, but the department."

"Satellites that are set up to detect this specific type of radiation. From orbit."

"Yeah."

Erica interrupts with, "If he keeps asking questions, are you gonna have to kill him because he knows too much?"

"Maybe," Stiles says. He pulls a few photos out of the file and tosses them into the center of the table. They're satellite photos of Beacon Hills, marked with blue trails. "Right now we can't pinpoint the suspect's exact location, but we're starting to see patterns. Soon, we'll have enough data to figure out where she's holing up."

Erica asks, "Is this suspect the person who put that—" She makes a few hand gestures that could mean anything, but judging by the look of disgust and horror on her face, she's talking about the feather. "— in Derek?"

"Yes," Derek says.

"Derek gave us a description," Stiles says. "Humanoid woman, black eyes. Like, _all_ black. And now that she can't control Derek, she might come after you guys."

All three of Derek's pack immediately stand up a little straighter. If they had hackles, they'd be raised.

"Yeah, I though that'd get your attention." Stiles places a small stack of business cards on the table. "That's my contact information. If the suspect approaches you, do _not_ engage with her in any way. Get out of there, and then report in with either me or Derek _immediately_. Got it?"

Again, the pack looks to Derek. Again, he nods.

Wide-eyed and anxious, the pack all reach in to grab one of the business cards.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Derek, I'll let you take it from here."

Derek tries not to let his nervousness show as Stiles walks out. After a too-long period of dead silence, Derek says, "Go home. Stay safe."

"Sure thing," Erica says, and leaves, Boyd in tow. Isaac hovers for a moment, like he's about to say something, then turns to go.

"Isaac. I'm sorry."

Isaac pauses, shoulders tense. "It's fine. It wasn't really you, right? And he was a shitty dad anyway."

"He was still your dad," Derek says. "And I—"

"_It's fine_," Isaac snaps, and hurries away.

Derek doesn't bother following him. He turns and rests his hands on the edge of the pool table, head down, eyes closed. Trying to think.

"You okay?"

Stiles leans against the door frame, hands in his pockets. His jacket and tie are gone, shirtsleeves rolled up.

Derek shrugs. "Yeah, just..." he blows out a breath, leaning heavily onto his hands. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That's okay, neither does anyone." Stiles walks over and leans back against the pool table. "You'll be fine. You can do this."

Almost to himself, Derek says, "Are they even _my_ pack?"

Stiles' eyebrows go up, and he crosses his arms. "What do you mean?"

"This woman. She wanted me to build a pack. How much of what I did was because of her? Did I pick these kids, or...?" Derek shakes his head. "Maybe they're not my pack. Maybe they're _hers_."

"Maybe," Stiles says. "Or... look. You could've offered the bite to basically anyone in the town. You didn't, though. You found the kids who needed the bite most, and you offered it to them instead." He shrugs. "I dunno. That seems like something you would do, mind control or no mind control."

Derek turns, leans in closer to Stiles. "You think so?"

"Of course, that means you're still on the hook for biting a bunch of minors," Stiles says.

Derek kisses him then, mostly to shut him up.

The angle is awkward. Derek pushes against Stiles a little too hard, the edge of the pool table jabbing into the backs of Stiles' thighs.

"Son of a bitch," Stiles hisses. He pulls away from Derek long enough to hop up and sit on the edge of the table, then grabs the front of Derek' shirt and reels him in to settle between his spread thighs. Derek braces his hands on either side of Stiles' legs.

Stiles kisses him deep, breathing heavily through his nose, and there are hands on the small of Derek's back, rucking up his t-shirt, trying to get at the skin beneath.

"This is okay, right?" Stiles says, breathing the words against Derek's lips.

"Yeah," Derek replies, lifting his hands from the table and running them up Stiles' thighs. He licks into Stiles' mouth, pushing up against the hands that slide up the skin of his back, reveling in the touch.

Stiles' short nails scrape against Derek's shoulders, and Derek's fingers tighten around Stiles' thighs, pulling him in closer and grinding their hips together.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, breaking away from the kiss. "Not here, not here." He yanks his hands out from under Derek's shirt. Derek tenses, worried he did something wrong, but Stiles just hops off the pool table and takes Derek by the wrist, saying, "Come on. My room. It's comfy, it's private, there's condoms..."

Derek lets Stiles pull him out of the room and up the stairs, but halfway there Stiles clears his throat and asks, "So, uh, when's the last time you got tested?"

"Uh."

"Oh god, don't tell me the answer is 'never.'"

A few different things try to come out of Derek's mouth at once. "I—my immune system—and I haven't been with anyone since—" He pushes the thought of Kate out of his mind. She doesn't get to ruin this for him. "It's been a really long time. And I can't get anything."

Stiles strokes his thumb across the back of Derek's wrist. "Okay. Relax."

They end up in the same bedroom where Derek woke up this morning. Stiles closes the door quietly behind them, and Derek crowds Stiles against it, latching onto the skin above his shirt collar with lips and teeth.

"Again with the neck," Stiles says with a breathless little laugh, as Derek starts to unbutton Stiles' shirt.

Derek likes Stiles' laugh. He doesn't hear it often enough.

Also, it's taking far too long to get Stiles' shirt off.

"How many buttons does this thing _have?_" Derek grumbles into Stiles' skin. Stiles laughs again and pushes Derek to sit on the edge of the bed, then quickly undoes the rest of the buttons and shrugs out of the shirt, shucking his undershirt a second later.

Three white lines run from Stiles' left clavicle, across his chest, to the right side of his ribcage. Stiles cocks an eyebrow, says, "What?" then looks down. "Oh. That."

Derek leans forward, brushing his fingertips against one of the scars. Judging by the edges, there was some kind of infection before it healed. "What happened?"

"I pissed off a Rakshasa in Pittsburgh." Stiles takes Derek's hand and presses his lips against it as he straddles Derek's lap.

The claw marks aren't the only scars. There's a knot of tissue on Stiles' arm from where Kate shot him, and a jagged line across his hip. Derek presses a kiss to Stiles' collarbone and slides his hands up his back; the skin over Stiles' spine is oddly smooth, almost waxy.

Derek frowns against Stiles' shoulder. "Is this a burn?"

"Yeah, chemical burn." Stiles looks down at Derek for a moment, lower lip between his teeth, before he says, "You want to see?"

"If that's okay."

Stiles shrugs and moves to lie on the bed. The burn scar is old, running from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back. It's not uniform, either; Derek can see the edges of different shapes, blurred by age but still distinct.

"What did this?"

"Paint stripper."

"Someone drew on your back in paint stripper?"

Stiles sighs. "Do you mind if we don't get into that right now?" He rolls over, tugging at the hem of Derek's t-shirt. "Come on. Off. It's only fair."

Derek yanks the shirt over his head and tosses it aside, letting Stiles tumble him onto his back, kissing him soundly. Stiles runs his lips down Derek's neck, chest, stomach, then drags his tongue from Derek's navel up to his sternum.

_Remember how good this felt?_

Derek flinches.

Stiles freezes and pulls back slightly, a calculating look in his eyes.

"Everything okay?" Stiles asks.

"Yeah," Derek says, closing his eyes.

"You want to stop?"

"_No_," Derek blurts, a little too quickly. He takes a few breaths. "Just... don't do that."

Stiles puts a hand on Derek's belt, fiddling with the buckle. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. Keep going."

Slowly, like he thinks Derek is going to change his mind, Stiles undoes Derek's belt and fly, tugging his jeans down. He reaches up and rubs Derek through his boxers; Derek groans and tips his head back against the pillows.

Stiles withdraws his hand. "Fuck. Wait. Give me a second."

Derek opens his eyes and lifts himself up on his elbows. Stiles is leaning over the edge of the bed—nearly in danger of falling off—and rummaging through his suitcase on the floor. Derek takes the opportunity to shove his jeans and socks the rest of the way off.

"Ha!" Stiles reappears, condom wrapper in hand. He tosses it on the bed and moves back between Derek's legs, fingers curling in the waistband of Derek's boxers, tugging them down and off.

It's been a long time since Derek was this vulnerable in front of anyone.

Stiles tears open the condom wrapper. "I'd put this on with my mouth, but the last time I tried that it ended in disaster."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

Stiles says, "Don't ask," before rolling the condom down Derek's cock and wrapping his lips around the head.

Derek's elbows buckle and he collapses back against the mattress. Stiles makes a satisfied little noise in the back of his throat, using his hand to stroke what he can't reach with his mouth. It really shouldn't be a surprise that Stiles does this with the same kind of neurotic determination that let him get this close to Derek in the first place. Derek tangles his hands in the sheets, breathing raggedly, unable to tear his eyes away from Stiles' mouth.

Stiles looks up at Derek from under his lashes and lays his free hand over one of Derek's fists. Derek shivers and lets himself relax, grip loosening, fingers tangling with Stiles'.

He doesn't last long after that. Derek chokes out a moan before he comes, in the process almost kneeing Stiles under the arm.

"Careful!" Stiles yelps, pulling off Derek's cock. He strokes Derek through his orgasm, grinning up at him.

Once he can form words again, Derek says, "What?"

Stiles' grin gets wider. "For once you don't look like you're about to have an aneurysm. I like it."

"You're ridiculous."

"Your _face_ is ridiculous." Stiles tugs on Derek's hip. "Sit up for a second."

When Stiles turns around to toss the condom into the wastebasket, Derek slides up behind him, pressing his chest against Stiles' back and rubbing a hand over the tent in Stiles' slacks.

"Oh god," Stiles gasps, tipping his head back against Derek's shoulder. "Warn a guy, would you?"

It takes a bit of fumbling to get Stiles' fly open, but the angle is familiar. Derek pushes his hand into Stiles' boxers as he wraps his other arm around Stiles' waist.

Stiles comes after only a few strokes, all over Derek's hand.

"These are my work pants, you son of a bitch," Stiles huffs. Derek chuckles and presses his lips against Stiles' throat.

**α**

Garrett and Bryan drew the short straw for patrol tonight. They work for Chris Argent, although word is that Chris isn't calling many of the shots these days. On the highway, circling the edge of the preserve, Bryan slams on the brakes.

A Porsche is parked in the middle of the road, thrown into high contrast by the SUV's headlights.

"Shit," Garrett says, undoing his seatbelt. "I'll take care of this. Keep the engine running."

Garrett has to circle around to the far side of the car to get to the driver's side. There's a kid sitting behind the wheel, maybe sixteen, as Garrett approaches. "Car trouble?" Garrett says.

"Yeah," says the kid. "I already called the tow truck, so..."

"Look, you're blocking the road. How about we get a line on your car, move it out of the—"

A hand winds into Garrett's hair, pulling his head back, and there's barely any noise at all when the knife opens his throat. The woman lowers his body to the ground, hidden by the darkness and the bulk of the Porsche.

**α**

Bryan gets sick of idling and kills the engine, getting out of the SUV and yelling, "Garrett! He moving or what?"

The woman comes out of nowhere, slamming Bryan against the SUV, pressing her knife to his neck.

Bryan's training—the psychological training, not the physical—kicks in immediately. "I'll die before I talk, bitch."

"The last thing I want is to hear you talk," the woman says, and plunges the knife into his eye.

**α**

Jackson is leaning heavily against the Porsche when the woman returns.

"You did well," she says.

"Holy shit," Jackson breathes, pale and shaking. "Holy shit."

"Jackson!" When he looks up at her, eyes shining with tears, the woman says, "A wolf does not balk at the sight of blood. You want to be a wolf, don't you?"

Jackson nods, still shaking.

**α**

Derek lets himself doze, lying on his stomach, Stiles' fingers tracing the tattoo on his back.

"I can hear you thinking," he mumbles into the pillow.

Stiles' fingers pause, one of them tapping what's probably the center of the design. "I found one of these in Old Lycosura, you know. A triskelion."

Derek stretches and rolls his head so he can see Stiles. "You know what it means?"

"You'll have to be more specific," Stiles says. "A symbol like this has a shitload of meanings. Basically any kind of trinity can be associated with the triskelion, or any threefold... deity..." He pauses, eyebrows drawing together.

"Stiles?"

Stiles leaps to his feet, yanking his boxers back on. "I'll be right back."

"What? Stiles!"

But Stiles is already halfway down the stairs.

Derek's just managed to figure out pants when he hears Daehler shriek, "Stiles, _please put some clothes on!_"

He finds Stiles in the study, kneeling on the floor, digging through the book crates, while Daehler covers his eyes with a hand and says, "Stiles, I'm seeing way more of you right now than a coworker should be expected to."

Stiles glances up for a second and says, "Derek, do me a favor, see if you can find _The Translated Diaries of Fortunato Andry_. I know it's in here somewhere."

Derek crouches next to the nearest crate and pushes books aside until he spots it. _The Translated Diaries of Fortunato Andry _is one of those university press jobs: plain cover, thin pages, about the weight of a brick. Stiles snatches it out of Derek's hand and flips to the index.

"Stiles, what's going on?" Derek says.

"Fortunato Andry was a witchfinder in the eighteenth century." Stiles finds what he was looking for in the index, mutters, "one-fifty-six," and starts paging through the main body of the book. "He spent a few years in the Mediterranean, and if I remember right—here it is!" He runs his finger down the page. "In Thessaly, Andry took down a disciple of Hecate. 'Her work was marked by the raven's feather. Though she often took the shape of a human, the harpy could not disguise her eyes; they remained bright and black as a bird's.'" He snaps the book shut.

Matt says, "A harpy?" hand still covering his eyes.

"A Thessalian witch," Stiles corrects. "They were lunar creatures, like werewolves."

"Were?" Derek says.

"They're supposed to be extinct. The one Andry killed claimed she was the last one." Stiles stands and stats jotting notes on the whiteboard. "But it matches up. Maybe they never really died out, or maybe one managed to find a way back from the dead."

Matt lowers his hand. "There's still one patient unaccounted for from Aeolia General."

"Possession, maybe?"

"But why did she come after me?" Derek interrupts. "What does she _want?_"

Stiles sighs and drops the marker back into the tray. "I have no idea."

**α**

It's the next patrol who finds the bodies and abandoned SUV. They call it in immediately, and within the hour Chris and Gerard arrive at the scene.

"This wasn't done by a werewolf," Chris says, looking over Bryan and Garrett's bodies, dragged to the side of the road. "This is the same _m.o._ as whoever killed Bennett." He stands. "We can't ignore this, Gerard."

"A change of priority may be in order." Gerard thinks for a long moment, fingers tapping against his lower lip. "... Someone's trying to get our attention. I say we give it to them."

* * *

**Next: "History's Kiss"**


	7. History's Kiss

**Notes:** No, I'm not dead. Like Rasputin, I cannot be killed.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: "History's Kiss"**

After dinner, Jackson tells his parents he's turning in early and heads up to his room.

The woman is sitting cross-legged on his bed.

Jackson nearly slams his door shut. "How did you even get up here?"

"You don't lock your window," the woman replies. "Nobody in this town locks their windows."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think any _crazy witch-people_ would be climbing through it tonight." Jackson takes a step toward the bed, hesitates, then takes a few steps back. "We need to talk."

The woman turns those creepy black eyes on him. "Do we?"

"I've been helping you kill hunters all week." He barely manages to keep his voice from shaking as he says it. "When are you going to give me what I want?"

The woman's lips draw back from her teeth in what should be a smile but isn't. "Impatient, Jackson?"

"You have _no idea_ how patient I'm being."

"I have an inkling." The woman unfolds her legs and stands, stepping down off the bed. "Soon, I promise. After the _bacchanalia_, we'll have almost everything we need."

She lifts a hand, moving as if to touch him, but stops, eyebrows drawn. There's a slight tremor in her fingers. She lifts the other, holding her hands in front of her face; they're both shaking.

Jackson says, "What's going on?"

The woman's hands clench into fists. "We're running out of time."

**α**

"So, wait, back up, I don't get it," Allison says. "Is she a harpy or a witch?"

"Both," Lydia says, delicately cutting her slice of pizza into tiny pieces. "In many cases, separate but similar legends can trace their origins back the same creature."

"So harpies, sirens, furies...?"

"All legends inspired by the witches of Thessaly, we think." Lydia falls silent and puts on an annoyed smile as the waiter comes by to refresh their drinks. Once he's gone, Lydia continues, "Unfortunately, right now we're in an awkward phase of our investigation. We have plenty of information, but no way of knowing what's true and what isn't."

"And you want me to help?"

Lydia tilts her head to the side. "What makes you say that?"

"You take me out to lunch, start talking about the case..."

"Oh good, you know how to pay attention. Do you know how rare a quality that is?"

Allison folds her hands on the table, leaning forward. "So you're about to ask me to figure out what my family knows, right?"

"_Subtly_," Lydia says, pointing her fork at Allison. "We do this wrong, and we may end up giving them more information than they give us."

"I'll see what I can do." Allison checks the time on her phone. "I have to get back to school."

"Of course. Take care, Allison."

**α**

St. Andrew's church closed down years ago, and time has not been kind to the place. In the fading light, it looks like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story, even from a few blocks away: windows shattered, bricks coming loose from the walls, and a tower that looks like it's on the verge of collapse.

"A little on-the-nose, don't you think?" Stiles says, peering through the Jeep's windshield.

"_Well, now we know two things about our suspect,_" Lydia says over the comm. "_One, where she's been holing up, and two, that she enjoys cheap theatrics._"

In the passenger seat, Derek winces and brings a hand up to his ear. "Still too loud."

Stiles sighs. "It's on the lowest volume setting. I don't know what to tell you."

"You could tell me I don't need to wear this thing after all. I can hear yours just fine."

"No, you need your own earpiece, in case we get separated," Stiles says. "If you're going to _insist_ on helping us make this arrest, you need to be in constant contact with the rest of the team."

"_Think of it as cosmic retribution,_" Matt says. "_For using up all the hot water this morning. Having shower sex._"

Stiles taps his earpiece. "I'm sorry, Matt, could you repeat that? I'm getting a lot of whiny bitch on this frequency."

Besides, the shower sex is a victory. As it turns out, Derek has a _lot_ of issues when it comes to physical intimacy. He'll gladly put his hands all over Stiles, but when it comes to _being_ touched, well... there are days when Derek almost seems starved for it, and others where he might as well have a three-foot "fuck off" bubble around him. Generally, though, Derek's fine as long as he can see it coming. Surprising him is a bad idea, as Stiles found out after narrowly avoiding an elbow to the solar plexus.

And then there's the whole sleeping-in-the-same-bed thing, which Derek is still having trouble with. More often than not, Stiles will wake up in the morning to discover that Derek moved downstairs to the couch sometime in the night. Half the time Derek doesn't even remember doing it.

So, yeah, showering together is a major step forward, even if they did get a little distracted. Matt can shut his whore mouth.

"_Children, if you're quite done,_" Harley says. She, Matt, and Lydia are in the SUV on the opposite side of the church. "_If Lydia's theory is correct and our suspect is only active at night, then she should be inside now. Lydia, Matt, and I will cover the exits. Stiles, Derek, you do a sweep from the entrance, front to back. Get into position. We'll move when I give the signal._"

Derek and Stiles hike to the church in silence, except when Stiles says, "You're sure you want to—"

"Stiles."

"Because if you change your mind, you could just wait in the—"

"_Stiles._"

"Fine, fine, I get it."

They scale the wide steps up to the entrance and flank the door. Stiles draws his sidearm. "We're in position."

"_All right. We're almost—_"

"Shut up for a second," Derek snaps, ripping his earpiece out.

Stiles isn't quite sure what reaction this warrants. "Derek, what—"

"Ssh." Derek closes his eyes, head tilting slightly to one side, like he's trying to—

Oh.

Derek's eyes snap open. "Hunters. Lots of them. They're headed this way."

"Are you sure—"

"I recognize the engines. It's them."

"Shit. Harley, hunters coming."

"_Get out of there. Don't engage them._"

Stiles dashes across the street and into cover, Derek not far behind. They'll take the long way back to the Jeep; less chance of running into somebody packing an SMG.

Derek is all tense lines, and through his teeth he says, "What are they doing here?"

"Same thing as us, I think."

"But how did they know where to look?"

"Damned if I know." Stiles hesitates for a second, spotting a glint out the corner of his eye. "Derek—"

The deafening _crack_ of a rifle echoes off the high walls around them, another shot following right in its wake.

Derek hits the ground, two bloody holes in his chest.

Stiles draws and dives behind a transformer, then reaches out and drags Derek into cover.

Over the comm, Lydia says, "_Stiles, we hear gunfire. What's happening?_"

"Sniper! Derek's hit!"

"_We're headed your way. Stay down._"

"Do _not_ do that. We'll be fine."

"_Stiles—_"

Harley cuts in, "_Copy that. We'll meet you back at the field station._"

The sniper knows Stiles saw him. Probably moving to a different perch, which means if they're going to make a break for the Jeep, they need to go _now_.

Stiles pulls Derek to his feet. "Come on."

"Stop that. I can walk."

"Then _walk_. We gotta move."

They make it out to the street; the Jeep is parked just down the road. Derek stops and leans back against the wall, hand pressed to his chest, gasping.

"Derek?"

"They're not healing. I think—"

He pulls his hand away.

It's covered in black blood.

**α**

"She's in the trees!"

Chris can see the creature moving along the branches above them. She took out one of his men as she fled the church, but now they've got her on the run, and there's nowhere for her to go.

Some rookie—Will, it's probably Will—fires his gun too early, and too close; the muzzle flash wrecks Chris' night vision. He stumbles into a clearing, blinking furiously.

From behind him, Gerard swears and says, "Lost sight of the target."

"Same here." Chris tilts his head back, scans the canopy, but it's all murky shadows, except—

Except for the flash of a knife in the dark.

A few drops of blood fall from above, hitting the symbols drawn in the soil; the symbols that edge the clearing, surrounding them, penning them in.

The air crackles and hums; Chris feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Will comes crashing through the underbrush and tries to approach; stops as he hits the barrier and a flash of blue light flares up between them.

"Uh, sir?"

"Warding circle," Chris barks. "Stay alert, she's right—"

She drops from the trees, using Will as a crash pad, driving him face-first into the dirt as she plunges her knife into the base of his neck.

A gunshot rings out, missing the creature by a hair and hitting the barrier instead, causing it to flare again. When the light fades, the creature's gone.

In the distance, Chris hears a scream, suddenly cut off.

And another.

And another.

He brought five hunters with him tonight. None of them are coming home.

She appears from the shadows, gently tapping the barrier so Chris and Gerard can see her face in the blue glow.

"Stupid tactic," Gerard says. "We can't get out, but you can't get in, either."

The creature smiles. "No. You die later. When I have time to make you suffer."

Then the light fades, and she's gone.

**α**

By the time Stiles parks behind the animal clinic, Derek's gone pale. _Really_ pale.

"What are we doing _here?_" Derek groans, as Stiles helps him out of the passenger seat.

"You got any better ideas?"

"No, but—" Derek coughs and doubles over, retching. Black blood hits the asphalt.

"Oh, god." Stiles slings an arm around Derek's waist and tries to lift him upright again. Derek leans into him, almost all dead weight, eyelids fluttering as he tries to stay conscious. "Come on, stay with me."

He hears the back door creak, and Deaton say, "Agent Stilinski?"

"Help him," Stiles says, and he doesn't even care how pathetic he must sound right now. "Please."

**α**

Scott helps them get Derek inside and lift him onto the operating table.

"He was shot?" Deaton says, cutting Derek's shirt open, revealing the wounds in his chest. They're already livid, infection creeping across the skin.

Stiles nods. "Long range, some kind of rifle. Hollow-point rounds, I think."

Deaton slips on a pair of latex gloves. "Any idea what kind of wolfsbane?"

Stiles' fingers tighten on the edge of the operating table. "No."

Derek is almost out now, eyes half-closed, breathing slow and wet. Deaton leans in to sniff his breath, then picks up one of Derek's hands and examines his nail beds.

"Scott," he says. "J-1767."

"Got it." Scott turns and starts rummaging through the cupboards.

Deaton picks up a pair of forceps. "What happened?"

"I _really_ don't want to distract you while you're doing this," Stiles says, as Deaton starts to prod at one of the bullet holes. The first shot didn't go very deep, and the tissue around the entry wound looks like it was put through a meat grinder.

Deaton pulls a tangled snarl of metal out of Derek's chest—yep, hollow-points—and drops it into a tray. "You won't."

"Short version is, we tracked our suspect to her hideout, went in for the arrest, and then Argent and his buddies showed up."

The next bullet is too deep to reach with the forceps alone; Deaton reaches for a scalpel and starts to make an incision. "So you can arrest them?"

"No, we can't, because legally speaking we don't _know_ it was Argent. We barely saw any people, period." Stiles winces. "Shouldn't you be giving him some anesthetic or something?"

"I have yet to find one that will work on a werewolf." Deaton pulls the second bullet free and drops it into the tray. Scott hands him a vial and a syringe.

As he unwraps the syringe, Deaton tells Scott, "You'll need to hold him down."

Scott looks perturbed, but says, "Okay," and crosses over to Stiles' side of the table, putting both hands on Derek's shoulders.

Deaton fills the syringe and taps it a few times.

Stiles says, "You know what you're doing, right?"

"Of course." Deaton turns Derek's head to the side and jabs the needle into his neck, depressing the plunger.

For a second or so, nothing happens.

Then Derek seizes, spine arching, mouth dropping open in silent agony. Scott throws his whole strength into pressing Derek back onto the operating table, and Derek thrashes under the weight.

Stiles has no idea what to do, if this will even help, but he reaches out and turns Derek's face toward him, thumb running across his cheekbone.

"Derek, it's okay, it's okay, it'll be over soon, I promise."

Eventually, it stops. Derek collapses back onto the operating table, and when Scott moves away, Stiles can see the wounds on Derek's chest starting to close.

"He'll need a few minutes to heal properly," Deaton says. Scott puts a gentle hand on Stiles' shoulder, leading him out of the room.

Once they're out in the hall, Stiles clamps a hand over his mouth. Breathes deeply through his nose. Starts to pace.

If he's lucky, maybe he can head this panic attack off at the pass.

"He'll be okay," Scott says, a little awkwardly. He watches Stiles pace, back and forth, back and forth. "I want to help, Stiles."

Stiles stops dead. "Oh, _fuck_ no!"

"Stiles—"

"No! Derek wanted to 'help,' and now look at him!" Stiles takes a few breaths, trying to calm down. "Scott, I appreciate it, but you can't get involved in this."

"I'm already involved!"

"Voices down, please," Deaton says, nodding toward the closed door to the operating room. "Scott told me what you're up against, Agent Stilinski. And he's told me how you're working from legends and half-truths."

Stiles' laugh verges on hysterical. "We're _always_ working from legends and half-truths. It's practically in the contract."

"Well, this time, you don't have to."

**α**

"Don't fall," Harley says, for about the sixth time.

Up on top of the fence, Matt takes the flashlight out of his mouth and snaps, "The more you tell me not to fall, the more I feel like I'm about to fall. Stop helping." He puts the flashlight back between his teeth and scrambles over a few more feet, almost within reach of the security camera, which is—small blessings—pointed away from them.

Harley's phone beeps; one new message.

"Stiles says Derek's gonna be okay," Harley says.

Matt makes a noise of assent around the flashlight, finally close enough to reach the security camera. He pulls a multitool from his pocket, strips the coating from a section of the signal cable, and presses his thumb and forefinger against the bare copper.

Harley puts her hands on her hips and takes a few steps closer to the fence. "Is that safe?"

Matt says something garbled and incoherent, then goes silent for a few seconds. He lets go of the wire and removes the flashlight again. "Like I thought. Argent and his buddies have tapped into the surveillance network."

"Which one?"

"All of them." Matt half-climbs, half-falls down the fence. "They've got access to pretty much every security camera in town."

"So that's how they tracked us to the church." Harley crosses her arms, glaring up at the camera. "That's a pretty big advantage."

"Yeah, no kidding," Matt says, shaking his fingers out and blowing on them.

"I don't think it's an advantage they should have anymore, Matt."

Understanding dawns, and Matt grins. "I'll start working on it."

**α**

"For certain creatures, the body is a tool, used for carrying the mind around," Deaton says. "When the body is killed, the mind just goes somewhere else. Your witch didn't die, back in the day, so much as she _escaped_."

Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet, all nervous energy. "This is going somewhere, right?"

"Yes. You said one of the patients from the hospital incident is still missing?"

"That's right. We don't even have a name, just 'Jane Doe.'"

Deaton nods. "If your witch came back and possessed a human body, then it has a cost. A mind like that isn't supposed to fit inside a brain like ours."

"So what's going to happen?"

"Eventually? She'll die. Permanently, this time."

"And how long 'til that happens?"

"That's a good question." Deaton turns and walks out to the front desk.

"Oh, come on," Stiles groans, following him. "What, is your BSc in 'Cryptic Shenanigans'?"

Deaton sifts through the mail pile until he finds a flyer, printed on cheap copy paper, which he hands to Stiles. It's for a concert less than two weeks from now, the dubiously-legal kind held in industrial garages.

"... A rave." Stiles turns it over; nothing written on the back. "You've lost me."

"Events like this are useful to shamans and psychics," Deaton says. "If your witch is smart, she'll be there."

"Doing what?"

"Feeding, maybe. Drawing in enough energy to stave off death for a few more months."

Stiles folds the flyer and tucks it into his pocket. "I think I can work with this. Thanks."

Scott steps into view, chin up, arms crossed. "I'll be there, too."

"I thought we had this talk," Stiles says, trying not to sound as exasperated as he is.

"This witch isn't just a threat to the hunters, or to Derek's pack. The whole town is in danger."

"Is that what you're doing?" Stiles says. "Looking out for the town?"

"Somebody has to."

**α**

"Derek."

It takes far too much effort to open his eyes. He's healing, but it _hurts_.

A pair of black eyes watch him from next to the door.

Derek rolls off the operating table and lands in a crouch, but his legs buckle and he drops to his knees on the floor.

"Easy," the woman—the witch—says. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to help you."

"You've got a funny definition of 'helping,'" Derek snaps, trying to keep his voice down. If anyone comes barging through that door, they won't see the woman until it's too late.

"If I had come to you in broad daylight, told you what we needed to do, would you have listened?"

"'We' don't need to do anything."

"Yes, we do." The woman looks almost... sad. "Your people are dying, Derek. They need you. With my help, you can make them what they were."

Derek struggles to his feet, gripping the edge of the table. "_Everything_ you do only makes things worse."

"Yes, because you were doing _spectacularly_ before I stepped in." The woman scoffs. "You would've hidden alone in that train car until it collapsed on you or the hunters finally tracked you down. You need me, Derek."

"No, I don't. Get out." Derek allows himself a quick, worried glance at the door.

The woman spots the motion. "What, you think the wardens are a better option?" She shakes her head. "You're useful to them, Derek, but they don't care about you. I've seen what they're capable of. They'd kill you without a second's hesitation if it meant saving this town. And they'd destroy this town if it meant saving the world."

"_Shut up_."

"But it hasn't come to that yet. So they keep you happy, and—" the corner of her mouth turns up in an ugly sneer, "—_sated_."

Derek lunges for her, but the woman's already out the door.

**α**

Allison finds them first, as the sun is just starting to rise.

"Mom! Over here!"

Dad and Gerard are sitting on the ground, dark circles under their eyes. Allison tries to run to her dad—

And hits the barrier.

"It's a warding circle," Dad says, as Allison stumbles back. "It breaks at dawn, just wait a few minutes."

Allison hovers anxiously at the edge of the circle. "Are you okay?"

"We're fine. Just tired."

Mom shows up as the sun finally comes up over the horizon. The tension in the air snaps, and Allison tackles her dad, throwing her arms around him.

Dad wobbles, but returns the hug. "I'm okay, Allison."

Gerard stands and turns to Mom. "We'll need to do something about the bodies. Five dead is too much for the police to ignore."

"We can't just bury them in the woods," Chris says.

"Why not? None of these men had families or connections. It's why we recruited them in the first place."

"You could've been killed," Allison tries not to sob, muffled by her dad's shirt. "Why did you go after her like this? You don't even—"

Gerard says, "Is there something you'd like to tell us, Allison?"

Allison lets go of her dad and pulls away, biting her lip. "No! I—not really, just—"

Mom kneels next to Allison, puts a hand on her shoulder. "Allison. If you know something, and you don't tell us, more people are going to die."

Allison takes a shuddering breath; lets it out. Looks over at her dad. "... Okay."

* * *

**Next: "Witchfinder"**


	8. Witchfinder

**Notes:** Thanks go to Poicephalus and Dusty for the beta, and also for enabling my love of terrible puns.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: "Witchfinder"**

Derek actually wakes up in bed this time, head pillowed on Stiles' stomach, arms wrapped around his waist. Stiles must notice he's awake, because he pokes the top of Derek's head and says, "This is really uncomfortable, you know. For multiple reasons."

They're crowded over on the edge of the bed, on the verge of falling off. Derek closes his eyes again and nuzzles into Stiles' abdomen. "You say that like it's my fault."

"It _is_ your fault. You pushed me over here and then got snuggly. You're like a cat."

"No, I'm not."

"No, you're not, but the dog jokes stopped being funny weeks ago."

Derek turns his head so he can press his lips against Stiles' skin. Nobody's alarms are going off yet. They have a few more minutes. "How long have you been awake?"

He feels Stiles shrug. "Didn't sleep well."

"Nervous about tonight?"

"I guess." Stiles' fingers start to comb through Derek's hair. "Don't suppose I can talk you out of letting the kids get involved."

"I wouldn't be able to stop them anyway."

"They could get hurt."

"So could you." Derek shifts so his elbows are braced on either side of Stiles' hips and takes in the sight of Stiles sprawled out on the bed. "If it goes bad tonight, they can heal. You can't."

The corner of Stiles' mouth twitches. "Getting all protective on me, Derek?"

"Maybe," Derek says, and trails short kisses down Stiles' stomach, then lower—

The opening fanfare of "The Standard of St. George" blasts from downstairs, only a few decibels lower than a jet engine. Derek and Stiles both jump, and the sudden movement tips them over the edge of the mattress.

Stiles groans and pushes himself up off the floor. "Guess that means Harley's up."

The music is still going by the time they make it down to the kitchen, where Harley is regarding the toaster with well-earned suspicion. Her mp3 player is slotted neatly into the speaker dock on the counter, tuned to a playlist titled, 'WAKE THE FUCK UP.'

Stiles says, "_God_, Harley, do you have to subject us to this crap _every_ morning?"

"Better than coffee," Harley replies, eyes a little wild.

**α**

"Here's the plan."

The conference room is more crowded than usual. Derek left early in the afternoon to meet with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac so they could talk about... werewolf things. Stiles isn't exactly sure what that entails. Then Scott showed up at around four, Derek appearing shortly afterward with the pack in tow. Scott keeps shooting suspicious glares across the table at Derek, but so far he hasn't said anything.

On the plus side, the conference room has a proper table now. With a monitor in it. The pool table currently sits in the empty swimming pool.

Matt calls up a floor plan on the table's display.

Harley says, "This is where the concert is being held. Technically, this warehouse belongs to the steel plant, but they don't use it and it's about to be condemned."

"That means watch your step," Stiles says.

"Two ways in and out of the building," Harley continues. "These doors on the south side of the building, and the loading docks on the north side. Daehler and I will be covering the doors, while Agents Martin and Stilinski cover the docks."

Derek doesn't look happy about this. "That can't be enough."

"The suspect goes after isolated targets," Lydia says, from her spot leaning against the wall. "As long as we stay in our groups, we should be fine."

"'Should'?"

"Derek," Stiles says, and gives him a look that hopefully says both _I appreciate your concern_ and _calm your titties_ at the same time. To the other wolves, he says, "This is where you guys come in. All of you will be in the crowd, looking for our suspect. If you see her, you'll signal Derek, and he'll move in. If she runs—which she probably will—she'll hit one of the teams at the exits."

Harley reaches over and switches off the display. "I want to make one thing clear to everyone in this room who isn't an FDSI agent. Your first priority is your own safety. If you have to make a choice between putting your life at risk and letting the suspect get away, you _let her get away_. Understood?"

Scott has a stubborn set to his jaw. "But—"

"No exceptions," Stiles says. "You're civilians and minors. If you want to be involved in this case, those are the rules."

Scott grumbles but doesn't say anything else. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica trade a few significant looks.

"Anything you'd like to share with the class?" Stiles asks them.

"No," Boyd says flatly, and the other two are wearing their 'evasive teenager' faces.

"Okay," Stiles says, deciding to drop the subject. For now. "We'll meet by the main doors at 1900. Any questions?"

Hesitantly, Scott asks, "Where's Allison?"

"Allison's not coming," Lydia says, and the topic is obviously not up for discussion.

**α**

"Here's the plan."

Every last one of the remaining hunters—about a dozen men—are packed into the basement of Allison's house. Most of them are standing around the table, which has blueprints spread across its surface, corners held down with spare ammo clips and rolls of tape.

"Our target's a spellcaster," Gerard says. "She'd be stupid not to take advantage of an event like this. We'll wait for her to take the bait, then close the trap. Victoria?"

Allison's mom steps forward. "Allison will be our eyes inside. If she spots the target, she'll call Chris, and he'll signal the team on the roof to cut the power. That's when you move in. Team A will take the main doors, while Team B goes in through the loading docks."

"I don't like it," her dad says, crossing his arms. "What about civilian casualties?"

Gerard scoffs. "We're professionals, Chris. Your men know better than to fire on a crowd. We'll isolate the target first, then eliminate her."

"A bullet in the head should do it," Mom adds. "According to our records, these things die quite easily. Any questions?"

Silence.

"We move at 1900. Dismissed."

As the hunters leave, Mom takes Allison aside. "You're scared."

Allison nods. "That's normal, right? I mean, you're talking about killing someone."

"This creature tried to murder your father," her mom says. "She wants to destroy your family. She doesn't deserve your pity or your mercy." Her expression softens, and she pulls Allison into a hug. "You're a strong girl. You can do this."

**α**

From the rendezvous point around the corner, Derek can see the huge, disorganized line of people slowly filing into the warehouse. The pack's been here for a few minutes now, and Scott just joined them.

Stiles comes jogging up to the group, holding a stack of tickets.

Erica lets out a low whistle, impressed, as Stiles hands them out. "These are, like, eighty bucks each," she says.

"Yeah, I'll have a grand old time explaining _this_ to the bean-counters." Stiles shoves his hands into his pockets; Derek can tell he's trying not to look nervous in front of the pack. "You guys know the plan. Stay safe."

Scott says, "Derek, can I talk to you for a second?"

Derek nods, and follows Scott around the corner. The bouncer turns a suspicious glare on them, then goes back to watching the crowd.

"This thing you have with Stiles," Scott starts, and Derek bristles.

"What about it?"

"Is it serious?"

Derek doesn't know what 'serious' means for people with normal lives, but for _him_... "Yeah, it is."

"Okay," Scott says. "If you hurt him, I'll make sure you regret it."

Then Scott walks away to join the line shuffling into the warehouse. Derek stares after him, honestly unsure how to react to that.

Stiles pokes his head around the corner, while the pack stands a few feet away, looking like they're about to break down into giggles. "Oh my god," Stiles says. "Did Scott just give you the 'You Break His Heart, I Break Your Legs' speech?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "You _would_ think that's funny."

"It's _amazing_."

**α**

The light and noise hit Allison like a wave when she first stepped into the warehouse, but she's adjusting to it now. She keeps her elbows in, scanning the crowd, hand twitching toward the pocket with her phone in it every time she sees someone in a hoodie.

"_Allison?_"

The bottom drops out of Allison's stomach. She turns around, and there's Scott. Scott, at a rave that Gerard and her dad and all his hunters have surrounded, ready to move in any minute.

"What are you doing here?" he says, looking like he's about to panic.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm helping Stiles, there's a—" he looks around, scans the room, then says, "We're here to catch the witch."

Allison grabs Scott's arm, pulls him toward the exit. "Scott, you have to leave right now."

"What? No, I can't. What's going on?" Scott's eyes narrow. "What did you do?"

**α**

Harley runs her tongue over her teeth, considering her options. "... Is it bigger than a bread box?"

"I dunno," Matt says. "How big is a bread box?"

Harley holds her hands up, about a foot apart.

"Yes, it's bigger than a bread box. Fifteen."

"Okay... is it—"

The door slams open; Matt and Harley both jump to attention, hands on their holsters.

"Scott!" Harley shouts. "Where the hell are you going?"

Scott pauses just long enough to yell, "The hunters are here! I'll try and draw them away!" before he's off again.

Matt starts forward and stops, like a puppy on a really short chain. "Do we go after him?"

Harley shakes her head. "We can't afford to. I'll call it in."

**α**

The warehouse's catwalks are a decent vantage point, removed enough from the strobing lights and blaring speakers that Derek can actually concentrate and try to filter the noise of the rave. He'll hear it if one of the pack calls for him.

"_This is Harlowe. Scott McCall just bugged out. Said the Argents are nearby._"

"_What?!_"

Derek's been getting used to the earpiece, but he still can't help but flinch whenever someone yells into the microphone. Like Stiles just did.

"_Where the hell is he going?_"

"_Said he was gonna try to draw them off. We're holding position. Stick to the plan._"

"_Shit,_" Stiles hisses. "_Shit, shit shit shit—_"

Derek glances up, and the woman is _there_, right in front of him.

She stands stock-still, not entirely unlike a surprised deer, black eyes wide.

Then she turns, runs, and Derek is after her like a shot.

**α**

At the edge of the crowd, trying to calm down and _think_, Allison sees one of the lights wobble. She looks up.

A hooded figure darts across the catwalk.

Allison fumbles for her phone and sends a text to her dad:

_She's here._

Seconds later, the sound cuts out and the warehouse drops into darkness.

**α**

The steady hum of noise from inside the building dies so suddenly that for a moment, Stiles thinks he's gone deaf, but the startled screams that come seconds later disprove that theory.

"What's going on in there?"

"_Looks like a power cut,_" Harley says. "_Derek, what's—shit!_"

Stiles hears the gunfire over the comm seconds before a spray of bullets ricochet off the concrete above his head. He yelps and ducks behind a stack of pallets, drawing his sidearm.

"Federal agents!" Lydia shouts from behind a Dumpster. "Cease fire and put down your weapons!"

The only answer she gets is another round of gunfire.

"One day that'll work," Stiles mutters.

**α**

Derek's faster than the woman, but she can turn on a dime, and the catwalks are like a maze. The lights went out a few seconds ago. Below him, people are stumbling over each other in the dark.

The woman skids to a halt as the catwalk dead-ends; looks down at the crowd milling below her.

"Don't—"

But she's already vaulting over the edge.

It's like throwing a rock into a fish pond. The crowd screams and darts away from where the woman hits the ground. She stumbles to her feet and starts running again.

Derek leaps down from the catwalk and lands on all fours.

"_Derek, what's—shit!_"

Gunfire.

Stiles. They're going to kill Stiles.

The woman is weaving through the crowd, but Derek turns and makes a break for the loading docks.

**α**

Stiles fires off a few blind shots and hunkers down behind the pallets, trying to present as small a target as possible. Two cops in stab vests, with Glocks, against six guys with assault rifles. If they make it out of this, Stiles is asking for a raise. And maybe a bigger gun.

He doesn't notice the hunter flanking his position from the alley until it's too late; only spots him out the corner of his eye as the guy is bringing his rifle up to fire. Stiles turns, knowing he isn't fast enough—

And a huge, snarling mass slams into the hunter, knocking him hard into a brick wall. The rifle goes skidding across the pavement, and the hunter hits the ground, unconscious.

"Derek, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

Derek takes a few steps back from the unconscious hunter, breathing hard. "Are you okay?"

"Where's the suspect? You were supposed to stay on her!"

"You—"

And then there are people everywhere, pouring out of the warehouse. The word that immediately pops into Stiles' head is "stampede."

"_Stiles, Lydia, pull back,_" Harley orders over the comm. "_Too many civilians._"

Stiles makes a break for the alley. When he checks, the hunters have disappeared.

"We had a _plan_," Stiles snaps at Derek.

"You're welcome for saving your life," Derek shoots back. Then the instinctive, defensive anger melts away, and really, a man that size should not be capable of puppy-dog eyes. "You could've been killed."

"I'm always about to be killed! It's in the waiver they made me sign when I started this job!"

An earsplitting howl echoes through the block, desperate, pained.

"Scott," Derek breathes.

"What?"

"He's hurt."

**α**

Trapping a werewolf in a basement with a vaporizer full of wolfsbane isn't the most satisfying way of killing one, but Victoria can't deny its efficacy. And at least it'll draw less suspicion.

It's a shame, really. Her daughter is so attached to this one. But Allison's strong. She'll survive.

That last, desperate howl sapped almost all of Scott's remaining strength. He lies on the floor, barely moving. It won't be long now.

From behind Victoria comes the sound of a heel scuffing on concrete.

Victoria spins, drawing her pistol, but the witch knocks her arm and the shot goes wide. The knife lashes out; Victoria dodges back, bringing the gun up again.

The witch flips the blade in her hand and cracks the hilt into Victoria's sternum.

Victoria lands flat on her back, the air going out of her in a rush. The witch wrenches the gun out of her hand and regards it with vague disdain.

First, she puts two bullets in the vaporizer, rendering it a mess of shattered plastic. Then, she shoots out the window and tosses the gun aside.

The witch delivers another kick to Victoria's cracked ribs as she crosses to kneel over Scott.

"Time was, your kind wouldn't kill children," the witch says, rolling Scott onto his back. "But I suppose rules change once the game becomes scarce."

Victoria gasps, trying to suck the air back into her lungs.

The witch turns the knife in her hand, looking down at Scott with something that might be mistaken for tenderness. "In the Balkans, there was a sect of hunters who would carve the hearts out of the wolves they killed, thinking the essence of the beast was housed there. They were wrong, of course." She brings the knife down, pressing it to a spot on Scott's neck. "There's a gland in the throat. That's where the monster lives."

The knife digs into flesh. Blood spills out and coats the blade, and something else: thicker, blacker.

Victoria rolls, grabbing the discarded gun, and the witch turns and buries the knife in Victoria's shoulder.

**α**

Derek kicks the door down and charges into the room, then doubles over, coughing into his sleeve. Out the corner of his eye, he sees someone ducking out another exit, but all that matters right now is Scott lying on the floor and the witch standing over him.

Stiles shoulders through the broken door, gun raised. "Federal agent!" he barks. "Drop the weapon and put your hands up!"

The woman lets the knife slip from her fingers, and it clatters to the ground.

She raises her hands and laces her fingers behind her head.

**α**

Harley finds it in the northwest corner of the building, strung up between the rafters and catwalk rails.

"Oh, what the actual fuck," Matt says.

The dead raven is trussed up at the center of a complex web of twine and purple flowers. Its head hangs low between spread wings, claws clutching at empty air.

Two feathers are missing from its tail.

* * *

**Next: "Vigil"**


	9. Vigil

**Notes:** Beta by Dusty, who woke up from a dream about werewolves and cursed my name, and Poicephalus, who was of the opinion that this chapter needed "more bollockings."

* * *

**Chapter Nine: "Vigil"**

In 1828, Alain Argent first began dissecting the bodies of werewolves killed by his family. He found their organs and internal systems largely indistinguishable from those of humans, with the exception of a small gland in the throat, the purpose of which he could not determine.

Tristan Argent conducted a series of experiments during World War II, in which he exposed human cells to the gland's secretions. Within days, the metabolic efficiency of these cells skyrocketed, although they began to reproduce at such a rate that the samples eventually had to be destroyed.

In 1953, Christina Argent gained access to an electron microscope and discovered that the gland produced what would later become known as a retrovirus.

And in 2012, Victoria Argent has been stabbed with a contaminated knife, and her husband has no idea what to do.

"Maybe it didn't take," Chris says, watching his wife from across the basement as she halfheartedly dabs disinfectant on the wound.

"The wound's deep, and she worked up a lot of adrenaline getting away," Gerard replies. "It took." He has the sword with him, the tip of the blade resting against the cement floor. He idly spins the hilt in one hand. "I'm concerned that you didn't tell me about these government agents sooner."

"I wasn't sure they were actually involved."

"And what about this Beta that Victoria mentioned? Scott McCall?"

Chris glares straight ahead, eyes unfocused. "Harmless."

"She doesn't seem to think so."

"We'll argue about this later," Chris snaps. "We need to figure out how to deal with..." he nods toward Victoria.

"Your wife's infected, Chris," Gerard says. The sword stops spinning. "There's only one way to deal with that."

"No. There has to be another option."

"Full moon tonight. Time's running out."

"Then I've got a deadline," Chris says through clenched teeth.

Gerard leans back against the wall. "The McCall boy. They took him to Beacon Hills Memorial, yes?"

**α**

Stiles leaps to his feet as soon as the nurse reappears. His foot's asleep and he's got an awful crick in his neck, but he doesn't care, because the nurse is saying, "He's awake. You can talk to him, but only for a few minutes."

"Okay, thank you," Stiles breathes. As the nurse starts to walk away, he says, "Could you—"

"I'm on my way to tell Melissa right now."

"Right. Thanks."

Scott's eyes are open, if a little glassy, when Stiles steps into the room. "Hey, Stiles."

"Hey, buddy."

"Wh'appened? I remember wolfsbane..."

"We're still working it out. I'll get a statement from you later, when you can actually make sentences." Stiles closes the door, leaving it on the latch. "As far as the doctors are concerned, you just had a really severe asthma attack. Your mom's not convinced, though."

"Crap," Scott groans.

"Yeah, apparently she noticed you haven't needed your inhaler for a while. She'll probably be here in a couple minutes. Thought I'd give you a heads-up."

Scott sits up a little higher in the bed. "Is everyone okay?"

"Everybody's fine," Stiles says. "Don't do that again."

"Okay."

"You're not actually promising anything, are you?"

"No."

"Well, at least you're honest. I've got to head back to the police station. I'll have my phone."

"Stiles?" Scott calls, when Stiles is almost out the door.

"Yeah?"

"Should I tell my mom?"

"I dunno," Stiles sighs. "I wish I could make this choice for you, but I can't."

"Okay," Scott says. "See you later?"

"Sure."

**α**

The witch sits with her head low between her shoulders, curled in on herself. Her hair is unwashed, short and uneven, like she's been cutting it with a knife. Under the stark fluorescent lights of the interrogation room, she looks tiny, almost pathetic.

"Good morning," Harley says, settling in the chair across the table. She brings up a picture on her phone—a shot of the ritual site she and Matt found in the warehouse—and turns it around so the woman can see. "What's this?"

The woman doesn't answer.

"All right. Let's try something easier. What's your name?"

"I don't have one anymore," the woman says.

"What about the person whose body this is? She still in there?"

The woman blinks, slowly. "She's dead."

"Okay," Harley says, inhaling sharply through her nose. "That simplifies a few things."

"You haven't killed me yet."

"Very observant of you to notice."

"I killed your partner. Don't you want me dead?"

Harley grits her teeth and places her hands on the desk, fingers interlaced. "My department isn't in the business of performing executions. Too much paperwork."

"No." The woman cocks her head to one side. "No, you _need_ something from me."

"What I _need_ is to know what you were doing with the power you gathered from that rave. You obviously weren't using it to juice yourself up, so what was the plan?"

The woman smiles, and remains silent.

**α**

"She didn't have the missing raven feathers when we arrested her," Lydia says, observing the woman and Harley on the other side of the two-way mirror. "So either she stashed them—unlikely, considering how fast she had to move to beat you and Stiles to Scott's location—or she's got an accomplice."

Derek glares at the witch. He's been glaring at her so long, and so intensely, that he thinks she must know, somehow. "She's controlling somebody else?"

"Or somebody's helping her voluntarily."

"Who'd be willing to work with _that_?"

"She's powerful," Lydia says. "Or at least, she was. Those with power tend to attract the timid and the needy." She shoots Derek a sidelong glance. "But then, you already knew that."

The door behind them opens; Stiles shoulders through and closes it gently behind him. "Anything interesting?"

Lydia says, "She has no name and she's wearing a dead girl like a flesh-puppet."

"Ew."

"How's Scott?" Derek says.

"He'll be okay."

Lydia turns away from the glass and pulls out her phone.

"Who are you calling?" Stiles asks.

"Allison. Last night was a disaster. I need to figure out what happened."

"Didn't you call her a few hours ago?"

"She didn't pick up."

**α**

Allison's phone rings again; without taking her eyes off the road, she reaches out and blindly hits 'ignore', then switches the phone off.

The route is familiar, though it's odd driving up here in daylight. Allison reaches the end of the road and parks the car, leaving her phone inside.

She hikes up the hill, nearly rolling her ankle a few times as she crosses uneven terrain. She's not paying as much attention as she should. There's too much going on in her head.

Allison and Scott meet on top of this bluff whenever they need to meet somewhere private. She's headed up there alone, today.

Finally, Allison reaches the top and sits, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. Something happened last night, something that her parents won't tell her about. Scott's not answering his phone. It seems like everyone she cares about is dead set on hurting someone else she cares about.

She needs time to herself. Time to think.

**α**

"Are we picking them up?" Stiles says, following Derek out the front door of the police station. The sun isn't setting quite yet, but it's close.

Derek replies, "I told the pack to meet me at the field station."

"Cool. We can take your car over, and that'll leave the Jeep for Lydia."

Derek reaches the Camaro and stops, resting his arm on the roof. "You don't have to do this, Stiles. I can handle them myself."

"I want to," Stiles says, and takes a breath. "You and the kids are a package deal. If I want you, then I have to deal with them at least _some_ of the time. Besides, I've seen your people-managing skills. They suck."

"You keep calling them 'the kids.' They're not actually my children, you know."

Stiles laughs and circles around to the passenger side of the car. "Ssh, I'm pretending this is a normal, 'How to Date a Single Dad' thing." He pauses with his hand on the door handle. "Don't think this 'package deal' thing means you can boss me around like one of your Betas, though."

Derek rolls his eyes. "You boss _me_ around all the time."

"Yes, because I'm an officer of the law." Stiles opens the car door. "Watch, I'm about to do it again: get in the car, Derek."

**α**

Erica says, "Well, this isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be."

Harley and Lydia did a decent job finishing the basement. More than half the floor space has been walled off and split into a series of—well, they're cells. Derek can't think of a nicer way to describe them. But they're carpeted, soundproofed, walled-off cells, and the entire basement's been painted the same generically soothing gray-beige.

Stiles is upstairs, running over tonight's plan with Matt. Near as Derek can tell, Matt's agenda for the night is as follows:

1. Don't go downstairs.

"I don't know." Boyd runs a hand over one of the new walls. "These don't look that sturdy."

"There are iron bars inside the walls," Derek says, running over the details Lydia had rattled off when she first explained exactly _what_ she and Harley were building in the basement. "They're anchored in the floor. You can tear through the drywall, but you won't be able to get out."

This is Isaac's second full moon, but all that means is he knows what to expect; he's starting to get jumpy, even this early in the night. "I still don't get why we have to stay separated."

"Emotional feedback. If one of you loses control, you might set the others off. There's less of a chance that'll happen if you're in separate cells."

Erica looks the cells over again. "You know this is scary, right? The Men in Black building cages to hold werewolves?"

"I don't like it," Isaac says.

"I know what it looks like." This isn't a crisis Derek can afford to have right now.

"Derek," Boyd says, in that tone of voice Derek's come to recognize as 'I am challenging my Alpha for his own damn good.' "Can we trust these people?"

Derek doesn't answer right away. Stiles' voice filters down from upstairs: "Fine. If they eat me, you get to say 'I told you so' at the funeral while Lydia cries. Don't make that face, she'd totally cry."

"You can trust Stiles," Derek says.

**α**

If the Beacon Hills Police Department has any objection to Harley and Lydia taking over the break room so they can do paperwork, it hasn't been voiced.

Harley is finishing up a very lengthy Weapons Discharge Report when she throws her pen down and snaps, "Goddammit, _what_ is that noise?"

"Sometimes the deputies forget to close the back door when they go out for a smoke," Lydia says. "The door beeps if you leave it open."

Harley levers herself up off the couch. "We've got an extremely dangerous prisoner in this building. I'm closing that door. Anybody gets locked out, they can bitch at me later."

As it turns out, the door wasn't left open.

It just can't close because of the unconscious deputy that's in the way.

"_Fuck._"

Harley turns on her heel and sprints to the lockup.

The door to the witch's cell is open. The cell is empty.

**α**

"I've been wondering." Chris slams the creature up against the low wall edging the roof, bending her backwards, her head hanging over empty air. "Can you fly?"

The creature makes a choked noise that would've been a laugh if Chris weren't holding her by the neck. "One way to find out."

"Maybe later." With his free hand, Chris draws his gun, holding it where the creature can see but not pointing it at her. Yet. "You knew how to infect Victoria. How much more do you know about them?"

"Everything," the creature wheezes. "I made them."

Chris relaxes his choke-hold by a tiny fraction. "_What?_"

"Lycaon came to Thessaly and demanded that he be made invincible," the creature says, a smug grin creeping across her face. "I told him to sacrifice one of his sons to Zeus, and he would get everything he wanted."

Chris raises the gun and and aims it between the creature's eyes. "If you know everything, then you know the cure."

"What makes you think there is one?"

"_There has to be!_" Chris' grip on the pistol tightens, his finger twitching toward the trigger. "Tell me, and you get to live."

The creature's gleaming black eyes flick between Chris' face and the barrel of the gun. "Fine." her voice lowers into a whisper. "If your wife can go nine years without tasting human flesh, then the curse is lifted."

Chris can hear voices coming up the staircase behind him.

"Nine years is a long time, hunter," the creature hisses. "One drop of human blood passes her lips, and that's it. No cure. Can your wife wait that long?" Her grin widens. "Can your father?"

The roof access door slams open, but Chris is already gone, sliding down the fire escape and disappearing into the darkness of the alley.

**α**

Stiles leans back against the wall and mutters, "If we do this again next month, we should move a couch down here."

The moon rose a few hours ago. Derek was expecting a bit more drama than this, but it's been quiet. Derek and Stiles sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor; Derek can feel how fidgety Stiles is, especially when Stiles says, "Wanna fool around?"

Raising an eyebrow and very carefully maintaining a straight face, Derek says, "The pack is _right here_."

"The walls are soundproofed!"

Derek cracks a little bit, lips turning up slightly. "I really shouldn't get worked up. The Alpha's mood can affect the rest of the pack, especially on a full moon."

"Fine," Stiles sighs, in what is clearly mock annoyance. "You're ruining _all_ my Supernatural Boyfriend fantasies, you realize."

"Don't tell me you read _Twilight_."

"No, actually, that came out after my vampires-and-werewolves phase was over. Missed it by that much." A look of distant horror comes over Stiles' face. "Lydia read all four books, though. And then laughed at my reaction when she told me about the toddler imprinting and vampire Cesarean."

"The _what_?"

"You are _so_ much happier not knowing," Stiles says gravely. "Learn from my mistakes, Derek."

A moment passes, and then Derek says, "So, vampires...?"

"Extinct."

"The Loch Ness monster?"

"Outside our jurisdiction."

"How about aliens?"

Stiles shrugs. "UFO sightings tend to happen in the gaps between Big Scares, like after the end of World War II, or the Cold War. People stop being frightened of one thing, like the Nazis, and the next thing to be frightened of hasn't shown up yet, like the Soviets, so they start seeing little green men."

"Is that your way of saying the FDSI doesn't have warehouses in New Mexico full of crashed alien spaceships?"

Stiles snorts. "I didn't say _that_." He shifts again, resettling himself, and rests his head on Derek's shoulder.

A few more minutes pass.

"So, I'm curious," Stiles says.

"I'd noticed."

"Cute." Stiles sits up again. "How come you're so—" he makes a vague, flailing gesture at Derek, "—like _this_, on the full moon, when the others have to be locked up? Is there a trick to it?"

"Actually, I was worse than them, when I was younger." Derek is edging into dangerous territory, but it's been so long he was able to just _talk_ to someone about things like this. "But after the fire, it just... stopped. No more fighting for control."

"That's... weird," Stiles says, obviously fascinated.

"Somebody told me a little while ago that the bloodlust doesn't come from the wolf. It comes from the human." Derek shrugs. "Maybe there just isn't enough human left in me."

Stiles doesn't say anything; just leans against Derek's side and takes Derek's hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

From the top of the stairs, Matt yells, "Stiles!"

"You're not supposed to be in the basement!" Stiles yells back.

"I'm not _in_ the basement. And Lydia's on the phone. Get up here!"

Stiles groans and stands. "I'll be right back."

**α**

Matt hands Stiles the phone as soon as Stiles reaches the top of the stairs.

"_Stiles, there was a break-in_."

"Do we handle those?"

"_At the police station, idiot_."

Oh. "Fuck."

"_Someone broke our suspect out of her cell and dragged her up to the roof. She's back in custody, but we can't risk keeping her here. It's not secure enough_."

"Where is she now?"

"_We've got a prisoner transport van. We're driving it up to the field station._"

"Okay. Be careful."

"_You too_."

**α**

Allison isn't sure what time it is when she gets back to her car, but it's dark and it feels like hours since the sun set.

She turns her phone back on, and there are dozens of missed calls. Even more missed texts.

The most recent text is from her dad:

_Come to the hospital. Something's happened to your mother._

* * *

**Next: "Liar's Candle"**


	10. Liar's Candle

**Notes:** Beta'd by Dusty and Poicephalus, Word Valkyries and Purveyors of Tawdry Sensuality. Chapter warning for minor character death and mentions of a character's suicide.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: "Liar's Candle"**

Allison's mother is dead.

It's a fog that follows her everywhere, reminding her on every breath: your mother was turned, your mother plunged a kitchen knife into her own heart, your mother is dead.

Victoria Argent wrote two notes before she died; one to be read by the proper authorities, absolving her family of all suspicion, and another intended only for her daughter.

Allison reads the note and burns it with a pocket lighter, and then she goes downstairs to her father's study and says, "It needs to die."

Her father is shocked. Her grandfather is pleased.

"Allison—"

"She has the authority," Gerard says. "Victoria's duties pass to her, now."

"That doesn't mean—"

"No." Allison takes a shuddering breath, still fighting back tears, but she's done crying. "That witch, that... _thing_ killed my mom." She crosses her arms. "I want it dead. Not arrested. Not captured. Dead."

**α**

It's morning in California, which means it's little after noon in Virginia. The video call goes through to Director Jason Heidingsfeld, Stiles' boss's boss's boss, and from the looks of it, he's having lunch at his desk. As usual.

The office is a little crowded when Harley, Matt, Lydia and Stiles all have to be in here at once, and it doesn't help that they've all crammed into the webcam's surprisingly narrow field of view.

Immediately, Harley says, "Sorry to bother you, sir, but we kept getting bumped up the chain."

Heidingsfeld rubs a hand across his eyes. He's in his early thirties, and Stiles has always been of the opinion that the director looks like a character out of one of those slick legal dramas. He doesn't look like a real person.

"This is about the Aeolia incursion, right?" Heidingsfeld says.

Harley nods, and Lydia says, "Director, I should mention that Derek Hale's in the area, and his hearing's quite good."

"The werewolf?"

"I asked him not to listen in," Stiles says, fully aware of how weaksauce a defense this is.

"Still, we should all be sure not to mention anything _too_ sensitive." Heidingsfeld steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. "Tell me what's going on."

"Long story short," Lydia says, "We can't keep Jane Doe here. Someone—we think they're associated with the Argent family—tried to break her out of the police station. We've moved her to the field station, but it's only a matter of time until the Argents find this place. We need somewhere more secure."

"And taking her to the county prison is out of the question."

"Yes, sir."

"What do you have on the Argents?"

"Not enough to prosecute," Stiles says. "ID's on a few foot soldiers who probably won't give up their bosses, a bunch of bullets that trace back to unregistered firearms, and a couple of witnesses who won't testify because they'd have to out themselves as werewolves to the general public."

"All right." Heidingsfeld thinks for a moment. "I'm declaring Jane Doe an enemy combatant. Her case will now fall within Director Lei's purview, although I'm sure Director Radke will also have an interest. Get in touch with Radke and make arrangements to have the prisoner transferred to Field Station Tian-Hou."

"Director," Stiles interjects. "We still haven't found her accomplice."

"All the more reason to get her away from the town."

Lydia says, "And the Argents?"

"I'd like to deal with them at some point, but ultimately they're a secondary concern. Get this case squared away. We're already shorthanded; I don't need four of my field agents tied up in one town. Understood?"

Everyone in the room mumbles something that resembles, "Yes, sir."

"Right. If you've got any more questions, address them to Director Lei's office. Good luck." Heidingsfeld ends the call.

**α**

Even though he knows the witch is powerless and locked in the basement, Derek still can't stand being in the building while she's there. He's been wandering the woods near the field station, trying not to eavesdrop.

'Trying' does not mean 'succeeding.'

He hears someone crunching across the leaf litter behind him; recognizes Stiles' breathing and heartbeat.

"Hey," Stiles says. "You had breakfast yet? I was thinking we could go out and grab something."

Derek sighs and turns around, hands in his jacket pockets. "If you need me to not be here, just say so."

At least Stiles looks guilty about it. "Sorry. Harley needs to make a phone call and she'll probably have to mention some extremely confidential things, so she's _insisting_ that you not be around for that."

Derek starts the walk back to his car. "Okay. Breakfast, then."

**α**

Derek waits until they're settled at the diner before he says, "So what does it take to get declared an 'enemy combatant'?"

Stiles aspirates a mouthful of orange juice and starts coughing.

"Oh god, that _burns_," Stiles rasps as soon as he's recovered. "I asked you not to listen."

"I heard my name. It was difficult to tune out after that."

Stiles reaches over and steals a swig of Derek's water. "Do we have to talk about this _here_?"

The diner is busy, and the all-encompassing buzz of conversation makes it difficult for Derek to pick out individual voices. Which means that, for a human, it would be nearly impossible. "Here's better than most places."

Stiles rubs his forehead. "The term is technically obsolete, just so you know."

"That's not an answer."

"I know what you're thinking, okay? The department isn't suddenly going to declare you a terrorist if you step out of line. There are extenuating circumstances here."

"But you're not saying they _couldn't_."

"Of course they couldn't!" Stiles snaps. "Even if they wanted to, _I wouldn't let them_."

And of course Stiles shouts that just as the rest of the diner goes silent.

Stiles lowers his head to the tabletop and stays there for a bit.

Once the diner noise is back up to its usual level, Stiles lifts his head. "I might be gone the next couple of days. Prisoner transfer."

"How far?"

"She's going to Colorado, but I don't know if we'll be taking her the whole way." Stiles starts to twirl the straw in his glass, staring out the window. "You should probably stay away from the field station, if you can. It's not safe."

Derek nods and stares down at his hands for a moment, then says, "Thank you."

Stiles drops the straw and turns his attention back to Derek. "For what?"

"For saying you'd stop them."

**α**

Matt is finding it difficult to code with Lydia buzzing around the office, grabbing everything that she thinks might be relevant to the case and neatly slotting them all into the cardboard box she brought in. Lydia must have some kind of Packing Tetris powers, because he's pretty sure that box should've been full ages ago.

Half-turning in his chair, Matt says, "Do you need to do that in here?"

"I would be finished faster if you helped," Lydia replies, voice so pleasant and sweet that it chills Matt to the bone.

"Sorry, priority tasking over here."

"Of course. Harley's project."

"I'm doing all the work. It's _my_ project."

"Hmm." Lydia crosses the room and picks up a pair of evidence bags: Jane Doe's personal effects. One KA-BAR, one pouch of... some kind of purple dust.

Lydia lays the evidence bags on top of everything else and grabs the tape gun, sealing the box shut.

Matt figures this is as good a time as any to ask. "Is another field station really the best place to put this lady?"

Lydia tears off the end of the tape and drops the tape gun back onto the table. "Are you familiar with Field Station Tian-Hou?"

"Not really."

"Tian-Hou is our primary listening post and research base," Lydia says. "It's the most secure facility the FDSI has, aside from the Vault."

"So one little witch won't be a problem for them."

"Correct."

Matt turns back to the computer, looks over the code, sighs, and slams the keyboard tray back under the desk. "Okay, this is about as finished as it's gonna get."

On her way out of the office, Lydia says, "Well, that certainly inspires confidence."

Matt grabs one of the spare flash drives that litter the desk, copies the necessary files onto it, then labels the drive 'HARLEY' and pockets it.

He can hear Lydia down the hall: "Hey, Allison. It's Lydia. Call me when you get this."

**α**

"No, that's a terrible idea," Harley says, her voice even but slightly colored with tones of 'my esteemed colleague is a fucking lunatic.' "We need two-man teams in each vehicle."

"We can't adequately protect the van with just one escort car," Lydia fires back.

Matt and Stiles are hiding in the kitchen. When Harley and Lydia argue, it's best not to get caught in the crossfire.

Harley says, "We can't adequately protect the van _period_, unless we bring in some of the local officers."

"And risk a leak? No!"

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it!" Stiles says, and scurries past Harley and Lydia to get to the door.

Where Derek is waiting on the other side.

"Uh, this really isn't a good time—" Stiles starts, then sees what's behind Derek.

Parked next to Derek's Camaro is an old Ford pickup; Erica's sixteenth birthday present from her parents, which Stiles knows for a fact she is not supposed to be driving yet. Isaac and Boyd are sitting in the truck bed, obviously eavesdropping.

And Scott is walking up the porch steps to stand beside Derek.

After a few tries, Stiles says, "Should I be worried?"

"We're gonna make sure you get out of town safely," Scott says.

Behind Stiles, Harley says, "They're _what?_"

**α**

"We're leaving at 0300," Stiles tells the assembled werewolves in the living room. "We expect to hit Route 50 within the hour. After that it's a straight shot to Carson City, and the team we meet there will take the prisoner the rest of the way."

"The Argents wouldn't try anything once you're on the highway," Derek says. "It's too exposed. We'll get you that far, and you'll be safe."

"Sounds like a plan." Stiles gives Derek a quick, grateful smile, then says, "Okay, listen up, all of you, because this part is important. Nobody outside this station can know when we're leaving, or where we're going. Not even the police know about this transfer. If someone asks, you don't know anything. If you think you're being followed, lead them on a merry chase through the town and stay as far away from us as you can. Got it?"

Everyone nods. Stiles thinks he sees something like guilt flash across Scott's face, but it's gone so fast that Stiles must have imagined it.

**α**

The prisoner is quiet all the way up from the basement and out to the van.

"I dunno," Matt says, as Stiles cuffs her to a chain attached to the ring in the floor. "I think this is actually worse."

"Says the guy who doesn't have to ride in the back with her."

Matt opens the passenger-side door and tosses the case box onto the seat. "Have fun with that, by the way."

Stiles spots Derek approaching in his peripheral vision, which means Derek must actually be making an effort _not_ to sneak up on him.

"Stiles? Can I talk to you?"

"Sure." Stiles hops down out of the van. "Matt!"

"What?"

"Watch her for a second. I'll be right back."

They pass Lydia and Harley on their way to the porch—they're colluding now, rather than arguing, which is _even more dangerous_—and as they reach the front steps Stiles says, "Is everything okay?"

Derek turns around, grabs Stiles by the shoulders, and kisses him, hard and frantic.

Stiles scrambles for a hold on Derek's jacket and tries—mostly fails—to keep up.

Eventually Derek breaks the kiss, and Stiles says, slightly breathless, "Worried?"

"Maybe a little," Derek answers. One of his hands moves up to Stiles' neck, strokes one thumb across the line of Stiles' jaw. "When you get back, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay." Stiles leans back in for another brief kiss. "I'll have my phone, if you need me."

From the Jeep, Lydia shouts, "Ten minutes!"

**α**

At 0300, four vehicles leave Field Station Artemis: a Jeep, a borrowed prisoner transport van, a Camaro, and a pickup truck that's seen better days.

As they hit the main road, the Jeep moves up to take point, while the Camaro and pickup bring up the rear.

Twelve minutes later, a black SUV backs onto the road from a side street at high speed, ramming its rear end into the pickup's front and running it off the road.

"_Erica!_"

"_We're fine! They're headed your way!_"

The Jeep pulls a U-turn and speeds back down the road in the opposite direction.

"_Derek, you and Scott stay with the van. We'll take care of this._"

The van forges on ahead, the Camaro trailing behind, while the Jeep spins and stops sideways across the road, blocking it. The van turns onto the road that leads to the highway entrance and loses sight of the Jeep.

Six minutes after that, the explosives planted across the road go off directly beneath the van's rear tires. The van flips up onto its nose, balances there for an agonizing, precarious second, and lands on its roof.

**α**

When Stiles comes to, the first thing he sees is the broken ring in the floor. Which is now the ceiling.

"Stiles!"

All of a sudden he's being pulled backwards, out of the van. "Ow, ow, ow, cracked ribs," he yelps.

The movement stops, and Stiles feels himself being gently propped up against the van. Derek appears in his field of vision. Oh, he looks _terrified. _And he's talking. "How bad is it?"

There's scraps of cardboard all over the road. Someone ripped a box apart.

Oh.

"She's loose," Stiles gasps, and shoves weakly at Derek's shoulders. "Derek, she's loose. Go after her."

"I can't leave—"

"_Go!_"

Derek stands and takes a hesitant step back. Then another. Then he turns and runs into the woods.

Stiles groans and tips his head back to rest against the side of the van.

He hears the _click_ of a pistol being cocked.

Gerard Argent is standing over him, gun in hand. "Where is she?"

**α**

The witch's trail leads into the woods, and Derek chases after her. He wants to shift, but he'd lose precious seconds and he can't afford the distraction.

She's not bothering to hide her trail, breaking through the undergrowth rather than weaving around it. The trail leads to a stream, and Derek loses her scent. He turns, slowly, looking for fresh prints in the mud and listening for movement.

A chain loops across his neck and yanks backwards.

Derek snarls. There isn't enough strength behind the tug to choke him for more than a second, and the chain is thin; he reaches up with one hand and snaps it in half.

The witch rolls away and darts across the stream, the broken ends of the chain dangling from her wrists. Derek lunges after her, raking his claws across her back.

She shouts in pain, spins, and throws a fistful of purple dust in his face.

**α**

"Oh, that's not _fair_," Stiles whines.

Gerard says, "You must be Agent Stilinski."

"And you must be..." snappy comeback, snappy comeback... shit, he's got nothing. "I've been hit very hard in the head."

Gerard smirks and levels the gun at him.

"_Don't!_"

Scott's standing not ten feet away, by the Camaro. He looks... oh, that is a very complicated expression he's wearing on his face. "You promised not to hurt him!"

Stiles blinks a few times, trying to get his brain working. "Promised?"

"As it turns out, Scott's willing to give up quite a few things to keep his loved ones safe," Gerard says. "Including information." Scott takes a step forward, and Gerard barks, "Come any closer and I'll shoot."

A second later, he hisses in pain and presses a trembling hand to his chest.

"Your trigger finger so much as _twitches_," Matt says, stepping around from the other side of the van, "And I'll set your pacemaker off like a Roman candle."

Gerard lifts his head and glares at Matt. Through gritted teeth, he says, "Boy, if you're smart, you'll walk away now."

"Oh, please," Matt scoffs. "I've got implants in my _skull_. I can feel it every time my eyeballs scrape up against them. You think you can compete with that?" Something very dark and more than a little crazed takes up residence behind Matt's eyes. "You don't scare me."

And then Matt staggers back, an arrow protruding from the center of his chest.

Feedback shrieks through Stiles' earpiece; he yells and yanks it out.

Matt hits the ground.

Allison appears at Gerard's shoulder, bow in hand. She tugs on his arm. There's abject panic in her eyes. "Come on, let's go."

They disappear into the woods as Scott runs to Stiles.

**α**

Derek goes down hard. His eyes are stinging; he can barely see through the tears. His nose and the back of his throat burn. He can't breathe. He can't move.

He feels mud splash onto his side as the witch falls to her knees beside him. "I wanted it to be you." She sounds on the verge of tears. "It _had_ to be you. The last scion. You were _perfect_." A hand rolls him onto his back, and the edge of a blade presses against a spot high on his throat, under his jaw. "But I'm out of time. I can't wait for you."

The knife digs in. Derek can't get enough air to make any kind of noise.

Then the pain is gone, and so is the witch.

**α**

The Jeep pulls up next to the wrecked van, with a few more bullet holes in it than there used to be. The tires haven't even rolled to a stop before Harley is out and running toward where Matt lies on the pavement.

Lydia jumps down from the driver's seat and approaches Stiles, kneeling next to him. "What happened?"

"Second team," Stiles says. He can't look at Scott right now. "We need to get Matt to a hospital."

Harley lifts her fingers from the pulse point on Matt's throat. Her slacks are soaked by the puddle of blood she's been kneeling in. "I think it's too late for that."

**α**

Jackson finds her by a payphone in the preserve.

"It's four in the goddamn morning," Jackson spits as they walk back to the car. "I haven't seen you in _days_. You can't just call me up like your personal fucking taxi."

"I have everything we need. It's time."

Jackson stops dead. "You—that means—"

The woman raises the knife, blade coated in blood and black fluid. "It's time to become a wolf, Jackson." She smiles. "And soon after that, you'll become an Alpha."

* * *

**Next: "Good for Parts Only"**


	11. Good for Parts Only

**Notes:** We're in the home stretch now, folks. Immense thanks to Poicephalus for betaing this chapter despite the looming specter of midterms.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: "Good for Parts Only"**

Matt Daehler joined the FDSI just over four months ago. Upon completing his training, he signed a release: in the event that he was killed in the line of duty, his body would be donated to the department's research division.

Harley has to commandeer a refrigerated truck from a small shipping company based out of Beacon Hills and park it outside the field station. The morgue isn't secure enough to store Matt Daehler's incalculably valuable remains.

She doesn't know how long she's been standing over the body, hands tucked into her armpits, by the time Lydia opens the door and climbs into the back of the truck.

"Hey," Harley says. "No luck, I take it?"

Lydia rubs her hands together, shoulders tight with frustration. "Chris Argent claims to have no knowledge of his father and daughter's whereabouts, or their recent 'activities.' More importantly, his very expensive and annoying lawyer says the exact same thing." She takes a breath and composes herself. "How'd Director Lei take the news?"

"She cussed me out for a few minutes, until I told her Heidingsfeld was the one who decided the Argents weren't a major concern. Then she hung up so she could go cuss _him_ out. I haven't heard back since."

"Artfully done." Lydia looks down at Matt's body, then back up at Harley. "How long have you been in here?"

Harley shrugs.

"You're blaming yourself, aren't you."

"I thought he'd be safe. I figured putting him behind the wheel of that van was gonna keep him out of harm's way." She exhales, watching her breath freeze in the air. "Two of my partners have been killed in the last two months. I'm feeling a little paranoid about that."

"What, you think you're cursed?" Lydia scoffs. "You're not cursed, Harlowe. They just keep partnering you with idiots."

A moment passes. Harley says, "You know, the last time I cried was the day I got expelled from college."

Lydia arches an eyebrow. "_You_ got expelled?"

Harley huffs out a quiet laugh. "I had issues with authority."

"Interesting career choice, considering."

"I came home that day, and my family had already found out. They didn't get why I couldn't just keep my head down and play nice. There was a lot of yelling, and after it was over, my grandma said, 'your mother would've been ashamed.'" Harley blows on her hands, and shoves them back under her arms. "I haven't cried once since then. Sometimes, though, I wish I could."

**α**

When Derek walks into the kitchen, Stiles is leaning back against the counter, phone to his ear.

"_You have one new voice message._"

"_Stiles, please answer your phone._"

Stiles spots Derek and raises his hand in a lackluster wave.

"_I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know what to do. He threatened to kill my mom. To kill _you_. I... call me, please, when you get this._"

Stiles hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. "How are you feeling?" he says, reaching up to touch where the cut on Derek's neck used to be. The wound is mostly healed, although there's still a faint white line.

"Better." His breathing is still rough, and it hurts to swallow, but other than that it feels like Derek's burned through whatever strain of wolfsbane the witch dosed him with. "What about you?"

"The doctors checked me out. I'm fine."

"That's not what I meant," Derek says. "You should talk to Scott."

"Wow, things must be pretty bad if _you're_ telling me I need to talk things out."

"I'm serious, Stiles."

Stiles lets his arm drop to his side and looks away. "I'll just end up yelling at him."

"He was trying to protect you."

"I don't need protecting!" The anger is gone in less than a second. Stiles sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes. "God, my head is killing me. Where's your pack?"

"Hiding. Allison knows who they are, which means Gerard probably knows who they are."

"_Shit_. We need to do something about that." Stiles pushes away from the counter, and is halfway to the door when he stops and says, "What day is it?"

"Sunday."

"_No_, I meant—never mind." Stiles checks his phone. "The eighth. Great. Happy birthday to me."

"It's your birthday?"

"Twenty-three years old as of—" Stiles checks his phone again, "—ten hours ago."

Derek isn't sure what response this warrants. "... Happy birthday?"

Stiles' laugh is high and bitter. "Thanks."

**α**

Allison hasn't slept.

The safehouse is more of an office than a barracks, so the only bed available is a futon in the corner. She spent a few hours lying on it this morning, before giving up and returning to the maps laid out on the desk.

Somewhere in Beacon Hills, the monster is hiding and licking its wounds.

"Allison."

"Busy."

The security feeds haven't turned up anything within the town proper. They'll have to widen the search.

"_Allison_," her dad repeats. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

"No, we don't."

Allison was nine years old when she went through her horse phase. She read _Black Beauty_ twelve times in a row. About a year ago she decided to reread it, but gave up after reaching the author's polemic on blinkers. The magic was gone.

Personally, Allison likes the idea that you can cope with anything as long as you keep your eyes on what's in front of you.

"Dad, your phone's ringing."

Her dad grabs the phone from where it's been steadfastly buzzing its way toward the edge of the table. "Yes?"

Allison turns her attention back to the maps. Maybe it would be more effective to search on foot. Split the town up into a grid...

Dad hands her the phone. "It's Jackson Whittemore. He's asking for you."

"I'm supposed to be in hiding."

"He says it's an emergency."

Allison lets out an irritated sigh and grabs the phone. "What?"

"_Allison, I screwed up._"

"Jackson, I really don't have time for—"

"_No, listen. There was this woman, and she said she could help me if I did what she told me to, but then she started _killing people—"

Oh, no. There's no way he—

"... What does this woman look like?"

"_I dunno... small. She's got black eyes. Like... _all_ black_."

Allison grabs a marker. "Where is she, Jackson?"

"_She wants my help with something tonight, at midnight. I'm supposed to meet her at that old hotel outside of town._"

Allison pulls one of the county maps toward her. "The Asteria?"

"_Yeah._"

She circles the hotel with the marker. "It's okay, Jackson. I'll take care of it."

"_I knew you—_"

Allison hangs up. "Lucky break."

"Maybe."

**α**

Harley is turning Field Station Artemis upside-down looking for something. Stiles can't figure out what, since every time he tries to ask, Harley gets another brainwave and dashes off to a completely different part of the building.

From Matt's bedroom, she shouts, "I can't believe you didn't tell me before now!"

"We were busy!" Lydia calls back, from the conference room.

Stiles' phone rings. He grabs for it like a drowning man who's been thrown a rope. "Yeah?"

"_Stiles, it's Dad._"

"Is everything okay?"

"_We'll see. There's someone here at the station who's asking for you._"

"Who is it?"

Harley breezes past Stiles and out the door, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "I need to check his pockets..."

"_They've asked me not to say until you get here._"

"I'll be right over."

**α**

Stiles knocks on the door to the sheriff's office. "Dad?"

"In here," the sheriff says. Stiles steps into the office and closes the door behind him, and the first thing he sees is Jackson Whittemore sitting in front of the sheriff's desk.

Stiles looks from Jackson, to the sheriff, and then back to Jackson again. "What's this about?"

Jackson clears his throat, fidgeting in the chair. "Can we talk alone?"

Sheriff Stilinski stands and says, "I'll be just down the hall."

"Sure, thanks," Stiles says, as his dad leaves the office. "What's going on, Jackson?"

Jackson takes a shaky breath. "I made a mistake. There's this woman, and she said if I did what she told me to, she'd help me get what I wanted, but she's—"

"Wait, wait," Stiles says, the gears in his head turning. "Skinny white lady, black eyes, wears a hoodie?"

Jackson nods.

"Oh, god. Jackson, it's vitally important that you tell me where she is right now."

"I don't know," Jackson says. "But I know where she'll be. You know that old condemned hotel out near the ravine? She's doing a spell or something there at midnight tonight."

"Okay." Stiles opens the door. "Stay home tonight, Jackson. Keep your head down. We need to have a talk later about whatever it is she made you do."

"Yeah, sure," Jackson says, and bolts from the office.

The sheriff comes back down the hall, standing behind Stiles and watching Jackson leave. "Anything I should know about?"

"God, I don't even know." Stiles scrubs a hand over the back of his head. "Be careful tonight, okay? I'm not sure what's going to happen, but it might get ugly."

"Stiles, what the hell is going on? I've barely seen you for weeks, and now one of your colleagues is—"

"I wish I could tell you, okay?" Stiles snaps. "I _can't_."

The sheriff sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. Neither of them has ever been able to keep an argument going for long.

"Sorry." Stiles heads for the exit, pausing long enough to say, "Take care of yourself. I love you."

**α**

Stiles is barely in the front door of the field station before Harley appears out of fucking nowhere, waving a flash drive in his face and saying, "I found it."

"Found what?"

"Remember how I asked Matt to figure out some kind of solution to the Argents' surveillance tap?"

He doesn't. "... Yes?"

"Well, the little bastard actually figured it out, and I just found the drive he stored it on."

Stiles shuffles to the side until Harley doesn't have him cornered anymore, and takes a few steps away so he can actually get some breathing room. "What did he do?"

"Lydia says there's a program on here that will sample and loop footage on every camera the Argents have tapped," Harley says. "It'll only work for a few hours. We're trying to figure out how we should use that time."

A few hours, completely surveillance-free. Stiles can work with that. "I might have a few ideas."

**α**

The meeting is held at the Hale house, after Derek has checked that the hunters have cleared out for good. Erica's truck pulls up first; a few minutes later, Scott walks up the road and joins them by the front porch.

They're all jumpy. Isaac especially is on high alert, twitching at every little noise.

"Something's happening tonight," Stiles says. "We don't have many details, but the witch is conducting some kind of ritual at midnight."

Boyd says, "Okay. What does that mean?"

"It means you're leaving."

The response is... mixed, to say the least. Erica looks furious, all clenched hands and gritted teeth. Boyd's much harder to read, but he almost looks relieved. Isaac keeps looking between Stiles and Derek, like he's not quite sure how to react.

Scott isn't saying anything. He isn't even looking at Stiles; he's staring down at the dirt, hands in his pockets.

"Stiles and I already talked this over," Derek says. "We have a chance to make sure you can leave town without the Argents knowing."

"The hunters know who you are." Stiles glances at Scott. "They won't hesitate to use your families against you. Go home. Tell your parents whatever it is you need to convince them to leave."

Erica rounds on Derek. "We're not leaving you."

"It's not permanent," Derek says. "I'll contact you when it's safe to come back."

Isaac's head tilts to the side. "That was a lie. You're lying."

"Seriously?" Stiles says. "You taught them the polygraph trick?"

"I promised all of you a better life if you joined me," Derek says, staring his pack down. "This is me keeping that promise."

Erica is the first to leave, spinning on her heel and storming back to where she parked. Boyd isn't far behind.

Finally, Scott looks up. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Stiles says. "It's okay."

Scott and Isaac leave together.

Derek's staring up at the house. Stiles watches him for a while. "You hate this, don't you?"

"I made a promise, when Laura died," Derek replies. "No more running."

"Would it help if I told you to think of it more like a tactical retreat?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

Derek turns his back on the house and starts walking back to his car. "I'll meet you back at the field station."

**α**

"He's upstairs," Lydia says, before Derek even has the chance to ask.

"... Thanks."

Derek takes the stairs slowly, listening. He can hear typing from the office, and intermittent clicks from the living room where Lydia's running an equipment check, but other than that the field station is quiet. The silence is oppressive.

He knocks on the door to Stiles' bedroom.

A few seconds later the door opens. Stiles looks like he's been trying to get some sleep, and failing.

"Hey," he says, stepping aside to let Derek in.

"The pack just left town," Derek says. "Scott too."

"Okay. Good." Stiles' eyes flick down to the book in Derek's hand. "What's that?"

Derek holds the book out. "It's yours, actually. Happy birthday."

Stiles gently takes the book, turning it over in his hands. It's old, hand-bound, with a featureless leather cover. "Where'd you get this?"

"Some of my family's library survived the fire. Laura and I put them in storage."

"Derek, I can't take this."

"You'd get more use out of it than I would."

Stiles shakes his head and opens the book to the first page. "'William Hale.' Relative of yours?"

"When the Hales first settled here, he was the Alpha's mate. This is his journal."

Stiles puts the journal down on the side-table, then turns and slips his hand up around back of Derek's neck, kissing him slow and deep. "Thank you."

Derek puts a hand on Stiles' hip when he moves to pull away. "You okay?"

Stiles sighs and rests his forehead against Derek's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm just in a weird mood. I don't know if it's because I'm worried about tonight, or if it's about Matt..." He takes a step back, scratching nervously at his scalp. "Shit, I don't even feel that bad about Matt. And then I get guilty because I don't feel _worse_ about Matt."

Derek sits on the bed and waits, watching Stiles rock on his heels, thinking.

Eventually, Stiles blurts out, "I just wish someone had _told_ him, you know?"

"Told him what?"

"When we sign up, they feed us this Uncle Sam bullshit, all 'You are the Best and Brightest,' but they don't _warn_ us." Stiles is ranting now. "They don't say, 'This job eats your life. It hollows you out so it can live inside you. And eventually—" Stiles pauses, takes a breath. "Eventually, it'll kill you.'"

Derek meets Stiles' eyes and says, "Do you wish someone had said that to you?"

Stiles looks away, running a hand over his mouth. "... You know I'm not going to die of old age, right?"

Derek doesn't have an answer to that.

Stiles doesn't wait for one, though, because a second later he's crawling into Derek's lap, kissing him over and over again, needy, desperate.

Derek lets out a shocked noise, low in his throat, and grabs onto Stiles' hips, holding him steady. He gives as good as he gets, biting Stiles' lower lip, fingers sliding beneath Stiles' waistband.

Stiles pulls his mouth away from Derek's long enough to gasp, "I can't stop _thinking_." He presses his forehead against Derek's. "Distract me. Come on."

In reply, Derek rolls Stiles onto the bed, pulling his shirt up and mouthing over his stomach. Stiles' skin tastes like sweat and antiseptic and the medication he's been doubling up on to stay focused. Stiles pulls his t-shirt off and tosses it over the edge of the bed, then reaches for Derek, shoving his jacket down his shoulders.

Derek sits up long enough to shrug out of his jacket and tug his henley over his head, then he's pulling Stiles up into his lap, laughing a little as Stiles swears and tries to get Derek's fly open.

They fuck like that, Stiles straddling Derek's lap, riding him, and Derek comes with his face buried in the crook of Stiles' neck. Once he's caught his breath, Derek lowers them both to the bed and strokes Stiles' cock until he's gasping and coming, short fingernails digging into Derek's shoulders.

Derek can tell Stiles is still too wired to sleep, but they lie there for a while anyway until Derek murmurs, "I still need to tell you."

Stiles rolls to face Derek and, with an utterly straight face, says, "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No," Derek says slowly, like he's talking to a child. "That's not even—_no_."

Stiles sits up a bit, leaning on his elbow. "What is it?"

Derek closes his eyes for a moment. This is the worst possible time to do this, but if he doesn't tell Stiles now, he might not get another chance. "It's about Kate."

He feels Stiles tense up, and when he opens his eyes, Stiles is looking down at him, wary and confused. "Okay."

"Remember when Lydia said that Kate must have had a source inside my family, before the fire? You thought it was Laura." When Stiles nods, Derek continues, before he can talk himself out of it: "It wasn't Laura. It was me."

Stiles goes completely still.

"I was an idiot. I thought we were in love, that we were going to—" Derek shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. It was my fault. I only ever told one person, and he was a complete stranger. And I just—I wanted you to know. You _deserve_ to know."

He looks up at Stiles again, expecting to see disgust or horror, but the expression on Stiles' face is just... broken. "You were a kid."

"I was a teenager. I should've known better."

Stiles settles back down on the bed and reaches for Derek's hand, wrapping long fingers around his wrist, thumb stroking across Derek's pulse. Almost too quiet to hear—so quiet that Derek knows it can't have been directed at him—Stiles says, "Me, too."

**α**

"Is it done?"

The smell of mold and rotting wood is overwhelming to Jackson's newly-enhanced senses, and he can hear every _creak_ the hotel's foundations make.

"They're on their way," he says. "All of them."

"Good." The woman pulls a black feather from her pocket and smooths it out, then reaches for the knife tucked into her belt. "Now, this next part is going to hurt."

* * *

**Next: "Pyre"**


	12. Pyre

**Notes: **And it's a wrap. Eternal thanks to Dusty and Poicephalus for risking their sanity to beta this monstrosity. Chapter warning for minor character death.

If you're wondering whether there will be a sequel, the short answer is "yes." For the long answer, check out secularbakedgoods on Tumblr.

**Chapter Twelve: "Pyre"**

The Asteria Hotel was built in 1966, intended to capitalize on the boom in business traffic that the new steel mill brought to the county. It failed spectacularly, closing for good just under three years after it first opened its doors.

The hotel sits on the edge of a deep ravine, and the moss and grass have overgrown the faded brick so dramatically that it now looks like a natural extension of the cliff face.

Stiles shivers as they pull up in front of the hotel. Derek says, "You feel it too?"

"Yeah." It's like a buzzing on Stiles' skin, down his spine and across his shoulders. Every muscle in his back is tense.

The SUV pulls in behind them; Harley and Lydia get out. Stiles jumps down out of the Jeep and says, "We got a floor plan to work from, here?"

"When I tried to look this place up at city hall, they said the blueprints had been transferred to the county archives," Lydia says. "But when I called County, they said the transfer never went through and the blueprints are still in the Beacon Hills archives."

"Okay, that sounds suspicious," Stiles says. "Or, bureaucracy at work."

Lydia shrugs. "Both?"

"This is a disaster waiting to happen," Harley says, looking up at all five stories of the hotel. "We'll do a sweep of the ground floor first, and then—"

There's a noise from behind Harley, and she reacts instantly, drawing her pistol and turning as Derek shouts, "Wait!"

"... Hi," Scott says, staring wide-eyed down the barrel of the gun.

Stiles is the first to break the silence. "Scott, what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"It's not just him," Derek says, and that's when Stiles spots Erica, Isaac, and Boyd standing behind Scott, partially obscured in the huge shadow cast by the hotel.

"None of you are supposed to be here," Stiles says, as Harley holsters her gun.

"We got our families out," Boyd says. "They're safe. But we're not running."

Scott adds, "Whatever happens tonight, we're not gonna let you face it on your own."

Stiles turns to Derek. "You're their Alpha. Make them go away."

Derek says, "It doesn't work like that," at the same time Scott protests, loudly, "He's not _my_ Alpha!"

And then Isaac yells, "Everyone shut up!"

Silence falls.

Isaac says, "Hear that?"

"What?" Stiles says. "Hear what?"

"Engines," Derek says, voice tight. "The hunters are on their way here."

"Oh, _come on_."

"Change of plan," Harley barks. "Stiles, you and Derek are going to search the hotel. Lydia and I will cover the doors and make sure the Argents don't get in." She turns to Scott and the pack. "If you're leaving, do it now. Otherwise, you're helping us hold the lobby."

"This is a bad plan," Stiles says. "How do you expect to hold off a bunch of guys with assault rifles?"

Lydia opens the back door of the SUV, reaches in, and pulls out a rifle case.

Derek says, "That's a good start."

**α**

Allison spots the Jeep and SUV as the convoy approaches the hotel.

Gerard says, "Looks like we'll have some competition."

"Looks like." Allison parks the truck and kills the engine. "I'll lead the hunting party in through the front. You know what to do."

She isn't more than a few steps into the lobby before a woman's voice shouts, "Federal agents! Stay where you are!"

The lobby is lined with decorative pillars, and at the far end are two staircases that lead up to a landing, behind which is the door that—presumably—leads to the rest of the hotel.

Lydia is crouched behind the rail on the landing, a high-caliber rifle propped up in front of her, and beside her is an agent Allison doesn't recognize. And another rifle.

"Allison Argent, and... associates," Lydia says. "You're under arrest. Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads."

Nate, the hunter on Allison's right, looks to her. Allison nods.

She dives into cover as the hunters open fire.

**α**

Stiles jumps at the sound of gunfire as he and Derek reach the third floor.

"They'll be okay," Derek says, as he tips his head back and inhales deeply, just like he did on the last two floors.

"Liar," Stiles says. "Well?"

"Her scent's all over this place. Can't narrow it down, yet." He takes another breath, mouth open this time. "There's something else, too..."

Stiles opens the first door on the left. The Asteria Hotel is one big rectangular loop, surrounding a central courtyard that's even more overgrown than the outside. The room is empty, although the doors to the balcony are open. "There has to be a better way of doing this."

Derek steps out onto the balcony and leans on the railing. "No lights—wait." He points across the courtyard. "See that?"

There's a tiny gable window on the far side. Stiles can see a faint, orange light flickering through the glass. "The attic."

When Stiles turns around, someone is standing in the doorway.

"... Jackson?"

Jackson lets out a low growl. His eyes flash blue.

An arm slams into Stiles' shoulder, knocking him out of the way as Jackson charges. Jackson slams into Derek's middle, driving them both against the balcony railing.

It breaks under the weight, and the two werewolves fall over the edge.

Stiles scrambles to his feet and runs to he balcony.

Jackson is stumbling to his feet while Derek lies on his back in the courtyard and gasps for breath. Derek locks eyes with Stiles, then jerks his head in the direction of the attic window.

"Goddammit," Stiles mutters, and runs for the stairwell, taking the steps up two at a time.

**α**

Allison has no idea how Lydia expected to stop her. She and the other agent are laying down suppressive fire from the landing, but the lobby is full of cover and it's only a matter of time until one of Allison's men can get close enough for a clear shot.

Nate is the closest, hiding behind a pillar at the far end of the room. All he has to do is make a break for the staircase—

Something bowls into Nate, tumbling him into the open. Nate scrambles for his sidearm, but the werewolf—Isaac—is already gone, ducking back into the shadows.

An earsplitting _crack _echoes through the lobby, and Nate collapses, blood spurting from the bullet hole in his neck.

A second later, another one of her hunters goes down the same way. And it keeps happening. Every time someone gets close to the stairs, a werewolf knocks them out of cover.

The radio on Allison's belt crackles. "_It's Gerard. I found the staff entrance. I'm in._"

Allison nocks an arrow and waits. All she has to do now is buy Gerard some time.

**α**

The moon is at the wrong angle for more than trace amounts of light to filter through the windows into the attic. Stiles keeps his flashlight beam pointed at the floor, checking for holes, or floorboards that look like they're about to give.

"I can hear you," he says.

"I know," comes the reply, and Stiles can't pinpoint the source. "Who _are_ you?"

A floorboard makes a disheartening _crunch_ as Stiles steps on it. He backtracks and circles around. "Aren't I supposed to be the one asking that?"

"I planned it all so carefully. I accounted for every possibility. Except _you_."

He can see the orange flicker of light in the distance. Some kind of fire? "Maybe you're just a shitty planner."

"Don't condescend to me," the witch hisses, her voice echoing through the attic. "I gave up _everything_ to come back. I've lost my own name and the names of my sisters. I returned to perform one simple task, and now that task is _all that's left of me!_"

It isn't just one fire. It's three small braziers, placed at each leg of a triskelion painted on the floor in what's probably blood. Above the triskelion hangs a single raven feather, suspended from the rafters by a web of purple flowers and human hair.

"What are you _doing_ up here?" Stiles tries to touch the feather; recoils when a sharp pain spikes up his fingers and through his arm before he can reach it.

"There's power in battle. In blood. You can't stop it now."

Stiles takes a step back from the triskelion. "You brought the hunters here, didn't you?"

"I brought all of you here."

"So you could... what? Make us fight? Feed your magic spell? What for?" Stiles shines the flashlight beam on the feather.

"I need an Alpha."

There were two feathers missing from the bird they found at the rave. Where's the other one?

"Oh, _hell_." Stiles turns and dashes back to the stairwell. He needs to get to Derek—

The door to the stairwell opens, and Gerard drives a knife into Stiles' side.

**α**

Jackson takes a swipe at Derek's head, and Derek blocks it with his forearm, hissing in pain as he feels bone crack. Jackson is—_somehow_—stronger than Derek, but he has no idea what he's doing.

_Strength is no substitute for skill._

Derek delivers a quick strike to Jackson's throat, then rams the heel of his other hand into Jackson's nose. He feels it break.

Jackson stumbles back, reaching up to shove the cartilage of his nose back into place. A moment later, it's fully healed.

_Derek_ doesn't even heal that fast.

Jackson bares his teeth, blood running down his face, and goes for Derek's throat.

**α**

Gerard clamps down on Agent Stilinski's shoulder with one hand and twists the knife with the other. Stilinski makes a pathetic little gasping noise, grabbing weakly at Gerard's arm.

Chuckling, Gerard leans in. "Allison told me about you and the Alpha. She's a child, she doesn't know any better, but _you_—" he twists the knife a little more, "—you're just _sick_."

He yanks the knife out and shoves Stilinski to the floor, stepping over him.

"Come on!" he shouts, advancing into the dark, unsheathing his sword. "I know you're up here. Scared of a fair fight?"

"Scared of you, old man?" the witch calls back. "No."

It doesn't take him long to find the ritual site. Gerard nudges one of the braziers with his foot, sneering. "Is this really the best you can do?"

A floorboard creaks behind him, and he turns, bringing the sword up, deflecting the blow meant for his back. The creature twirls the knife in her hand and comes at him again.

Gerard's foot knocks the brazier, tipping it over. The dry wood of the floor catches and starts to burn.

**α**

Allison spots movement in the shadow of a pillar and looses the arrow.

Scott screams.

Allison advances on him as he rips the arrow out of his leg and stares up at her. She's already nocked and drawn a second arrow. She doesn't remember doing that.

"Get out of here, Scott," she says.

Scott shakes his head. "I can't."

Allison blinks to clear her eyes. She can't cry. Not now. "Please. Please just go. I don't want to hurt you."

"So don't."

Allison ducks as a bullet hits the pillar next to her head, sending chips of concrete flying in every direction.

"That was a warning shot," Lydia barks. "The next one won't miss. Drop the bow."

Allison's hands are shaking. She relaxes the bowstring, the arrow dropping from her fingers.

"It's okay," Scott says, stumbling to his feet, moving to put a hand on Allison's shoulder—then he hesitates, nostrils flaring. "Something's burning."

**α**

Stiles' hand is slick with blood. It's getting harder to keep pressure on the wound.

He leans heavily against the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps down the staircase. If he falls, there's a good chance he won't be able to get back up again.

After an age, he reaches the landing and shoulders open the door to the fifth floor.

He just needs to get to a balcony.

The first door he tries is locked. The second is missing a handle, and he throws his weight against the door, shoving it open.

Stiles stumbles to the balcony and collapses there, slumped against the railing. He takes a few deep, shuddering breaths, then, as loud as he can, shouts Derek's name.

**α**

"_Derek!_"

Derek ducks under Jackson's arm and elbows him hard in the back, sending him sprawling. Jackson rolls to his feet and snarls. He's getting stronger by the second. Derek can't keep this up much longer.

He hears Stiles again: "Derek! She put a feather in Jackson like she did to you! She's feeding him power!"

Jackson lunges at him. Derek slams his forearm into Jackson's throat, bearing them both down to the ground, and claws into the muscle of Jackson's shoulder, digging for the feather.

It's not there.

Jackson headbutts Derek and rolls them, pinning Derek's arms with his knees. He raises a hand, ready to rip Derek's throat out, and Derek sees something ripple under the muscle of Jackson's stomach. Something alien.

He rips one arm free and plunges his claws into Jackson's abdomen, ripping the feather out in one pull.

Derek rears up, throwing Jackson off him. Jackson collapses onto his back, whimpering in pain. Rolling to his feet, Derek places one foot on Jackson's chest, eyes glowing red.

Jackson tips his head back, showing Derek his throat.

**α**

The greatsword is a big, slow weapon, but in the right hands it's devastating. It's been a while since Gerard was in proper combat. He's enjoying it. The witch is tiny and fast, and frequently tries to sneak in under his guard.

Gerard is peripherally aware that the attic is burning around them, but he's not about to let this creature get away. Not this time.

The witch dances out of the sword's arc and darts forward again, burying the knife in Gerard's right forearm. His fingers go numb, and the sword drops to the floor.

Gerard kicks out and hears something crack. The witch shrieks. Gerard twists the knife out of her hand and drives it up under her ribs. She sucks in a breath, black eyes wide, and Gerard laughs.

"I win."

The creature looks over Gerard's shoulder; her face twists into a smile, blood coating her teeth. "Do you?"

Gerard checks behind him and sees the burning rafters collapse, taking the floor with them.

Blocking his way out.

The witch's fingers wrap around Gerard's wrist, grip like a vise, her other hand clutching the front of his jacket as she pulls him closer.

"Don't worry, hunter," she whispers, barely audible over the roar of the fire. "I've died before. There's nothing to be afraid of."

**α**

Derek shoves Jackson out the door ahead of him and turns around, looking up at the hotel. The top two floors are on fire, and it's spreading. Derek backs away, fear churning low in his gut.

The surviving hunters are sitting on the ground a safe distance from the hotel; Harley and Lydia stand over them, guns drawn, while Scott and the pack are huddled near the treeline.

Lydia spots Derek and shouts, "Where's Stiles?"

The fear rises up into Derek's throat, almost choking him. "He's not with you?"

Lydia shakes her head, staring wide-eyed at the burning hotel.

Six years ago, the call had come in while the house was still on fire. It was still burning by the time Derek and Laura arrived. Derek tried to run inside, even managed to get past the cops and firefighters, but Laura had grabbed him, dragged him back to a safe distance.

Laura isn't here to stop him this time.

**α**

Stiles can feel the heat getting closer, but he isn't too worried about it. He'll probably bleed out before the fire gets him. And he'll probably asphyxiate from smoke inhalation before he bleeds out.

This is going to kill his dad. And Derek. Jesus Christ, _Derek_—

"Stiles!"

_Jesus Christ_, Derek.

Derek's standing the doorway, holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth because nobody fucking told him that doesn't work with leather. Stiles doesn't have the energy to yell. Instead, as Derek crosses the room and crouches next to him, Stiles mumbles, "You're an _idiot_."

"I know."

Derek tries to drag Stiles to his feet, but the motion pulls at the hole in Stiles' side and he gasps in pain.

Stiles sees Derek's eyes dart down to the wound, to the blood soaking Stiles' shirt and covering his hands.

"Go," Stiles rasps. "Get out, this whole place is coming down—"

Derek's ignoring him. He gets an arm around Stiles' shoulders, the other under his knees, and lifts him up.

Stiles isn't sure what happens next, because that's when he passes out.

**α**

Derek is distantly aware of sirens and flashing lights when he gets outside, but all of his attention is focused on Stiles' weak, thready heartbeat.

Someone's pushing him; someone else is trying to pull Stiles out of Derek's arms. It takes all of his control not to snarl at them, but soon Stiles is being strapped onto a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance.

Derek keeps listening for Stiles' pulse even after the ambulance is too far away to hear.

There's a hand on his elbow. "Derek."

He comes back to the world, a little. The first thing he really notices is Allison being pushed into the back of a squad car. They lock eyes; she looks away.

"Derek," Lydia says again. "Come on. I'll give you a ride to the hospital."

**α**

When one of the deputies led Allison into the interrogation room, he said someone would be coming to talk to her in a few minutes.

That was an hour ago, near as she can tell. There aren't any clocks in here.

She briefly entertained the idea of escaping, but there's no point. The thing that killed her mom is dead. Gerard is dead. The blinkers are off, and it's time to face the rest of the world.

The door opens, and Lydia settles into the chair across the table from Allison, perfectly composed as always. She folds her hands on the table in front of her. "Hello, Allison."

Allison doesn't answer.

"I'm not here in an official capacity. Yet. I just want to talk."

"About?"

"About you, actually." Lydia starts counting off on her fingers. "You joined a known human supremacist group—we had to invent that term, since 'vigilante monster hunters' isn't something you can use in official paperwork—you interfered with a federal investigation, you resisted arrest, and you killed an FDSI agent. It's entirely likely the prosecution will push to have you tried as an adult. Your life is effectively over, you realize."

"I know."

Lydia leans forward. "What if I told you I could make it all go away?"

Allison looks at Lydia, really _looks_: takes in the amused tilt to her mouth; the eyes watching her as if she were a particularly fascinating specimen on a slab; the cold, calculating anger behind them.

"And what would you want from me, if you did that?"

Lydia smiles.

**α**

Stiles wakes up to the smell of antiseptic and smoke. And his legs are asleep. There's something very heavy on them.

Derek is sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, upper body sprawled across Stiles' legs, head tucked into Stiles' lap. There's still ash in his hair. And he's drooling, a little bit.

"You could have showered," Stiles says, out loud, because apparently he's also on a lot of drugs.

Derek sits bolt upright, blinking rapidly.

"Are you even allowed to be here, Derek?"

"No." Derek rubs his eyes and then just... _stares_ at Stiles. "You're awake."

"I noticed." Stiles reaches for Derek's hand and squeezes it. "Thank you. Remind me to yell at you later."

There's a knock on the door, and Lydia pokes her head in. "Stiles."

"Lydia. What's the damage?"

Lydia walks in and stands at the foot of the bed. "You're minus one kidney. Don't worry, I had them put it in a jar for you to take home."

"You _do_ love me."

Derek's stare is now one of confused horror. "You want to keep it?"

"It's _my_ kidney." To Lydia, he says, "What happened while I was out?"

"We arrested Allison Argent," Lydia says. "Gerard and Jane Doe are dead."

"So it's over."

"For now." Lydia crosses her arms. "Now stop losing body parts. At this rate, I'll have to carry what's left of you around in a shoebox."

"Yes, ma'am."

The corner of Lydia's mouth turns up. "It's good to have you back, Stiles," she says, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Stiles settles back against the pillows. The silence is suffocating, so he says, "We should go somewhere."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You're not going anywhere right now."

"I meant _later_," Stiles says. "I've still got some vacation time left. We should do something with it. How about Palm Springs? I hear Palm Springs is nice. I know somebody who—"

"I'll think about it," Derek says, trying to hide a smile.

"Good. Thinking is good. You should do that more often."

Anything he says after that can be entirely blamed on the morphine.

**α**

Back at the police station, a deputy escorts Allison Argent from the interrogation room and closes the door behind him.

The room is completely empty, but in the mirror, something moves.

Ω


End file.
